She Walked Among Suns
by lillylivered
Summary: Elia's life began and ended in blood, but there was quite a lot in between as well, for what the world seemed to forget was that she was a maid of Dorne before being a Targaryen princess, and her sun could blaze brighter than any dragon's fire. BEING REWWRITTEN UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.
1. Prologue

**No copyright infringement intended. All recognizable characters, places, events, etc. belong to George R. R. Martin.**

* * *

It was true, she had been a sickly babe. And a sickly child and a sickly woman. To those who saw her, Elia Martell would shine, just like Doran or Oberyn, but while her brothers (especially her younger one) were ablaze with health and vigor, she simply glowed, like a star who glimmered before it finally puttered out.

No, Elia had never come to accept her less-than ideal constitution. She could not grow accustomed to the wracking coughs that beset her at times; she could not disguise her thin frame that was such an oddity in Dorne, the land of the luscious. But she had grown to weave her way around her shortcomings. What she lacked in health she made up for in personality, and her sunlit aura came not from physical beauty but from strength of presence, for she was vivacious, charming, witty, clever, and above all, kind.

Elia was a rarity for a woman of Dorne, Oberyn would later say. Not because of her appearance but because of her pure heart. _Her flower came with no thorns_.

But at King's Landing, Elia tended to forget these things, that it was her _heart_ that was her light and not her body. In the Red Keep, where Aerys the Mad King reigned and the walls of the castle caged her in with the cold drafts that left her coughing and the harsh stares that made her bones feel even more pronounced; here, Elia felt lost and lonely even with Arthur and Ashara by her side.

It was not that she didn't love her husband. No, she did. They loved each other, but loving is very different from being _in love_ , and Elia was content with what she had. After all, he didn't beat her or rape her or force her to do anything she didn't want. He came to her, faithfully and occasionally passionately. He read to her, and he took her for walks around the castle whenever her health would permit. They made each other laugh, and in those moments in his solar, when they would pore over maps of Westeros and Essos, planning ludicrous journeys across the Narrow Sea with wineskins in their hands and stars in their eyes, when Rhaegar would run his fingers through her hair, and she would jape at their romanticism, when he would smile that smile and pull her under the covers, in those moments, Elia was as happy as she ever had been at Dorne because she had more than just a husband in Rhaegar- she also had a friend.

But those times were few and far between, for more often than not, Rhaegar was away on "official heir business" or locked in his study, poring over ancient lores and myths, looking for clues to solve the mysteries he had conjured up in his mind.

And when he was not present, all she had for company were her ladies-in-waiting, her children, and the screams of Queen Rhaella as the Mad King laughed from somewhere in the Keep.

History would say that what killed Elia in the end was not her sickly constitution but the violence and bloodlust that had been brought on by her husband's actions.

Elia, however, disagreed. Her end had begun long before the Mountain plundered her body, long before Usurper had come waging a war, long before the Stark girl had disappeared, and long before the tourney that smelled of winter roses and pain.

No, Elia's light had begun to dim the day she looked into those lovely, dark blue-violet eyes, and _fell_.


	2. A Tourney Begins

**No copyright infringement intended. All recognizable characters, places, events, etc. belong to George R. R. Martin.**

* * *

Dorne was a proud kingdom.

And rightly so, for it alone held against the battering might of the Targaryens during the conquest of Aegon the Conqueror. The people were proud, and they were stubborn, and it had served them well. It is said that the willpower of the Dornish was not wrought from weapons but from the strength of their spirits, which burn brightly as the sun. And so when the time came for the nation to wed it's only princess, the question presented was, "Who was worthy of such an honor?"

The princess' brother Oberyn would've said, "No one at all." To him, his sister was a flower whose value could not be measured in political alliances but only in the wit she imbued and kindness she embodied.

The heir to the throne and the eldest of the three Martell siblings, Doran, would've scuffed his young brother around the head and with all the wisdom and cunning of a future leader, respond, "Whoever promises to respect, honor, and defend the wishes of our sister, her family, and her kingdom."

The men of Dorne would've replied with bawdy winks and lewd smiles, "A man with fire in his blood to set hers alight!" She was not especially pretty, they all agreed, but there was something about her aura that still made heads turn and mouths fall.

The women would've replied much the same, for Dorne was a place where a woman could breathe and live with a bit more freedom than in many other kingdoms. They were, after all, descended from the warrior-queen Nymeria, who commandeered ten thousand ships to shores of Westeros and united the small, warring kingdoms of Dorne under the banner of House Martell.

And amongst all of this discussion, if anyone had thought to ask the princess herself, she might've smiled at the inquirer sweetly with a glimmer in her eye and replied, "I suppose a man such as Arthur."

Arthur Dayne was so intertwined with the Martells that he may as well have been adopted into the clan. He hailed from Starfall as a young boy to become a squire under Ryad, the Prince of Dorne and Elia's father. Close in age to both her and Oberyn, the boy had attached to them from the beginning. The romance between Elia Martell and Arthur Dayne, that hot-headed lad who slowly mellowed into a loyal and brave man, had blossomed with age. And while the mutually shared and acknowledged feelings had all the potential to become a tragic love affair, the attraction was never consummated and therefore, tragedy was naught to be had, especially after Arthur, a well-seasoned soldier, became of member of that illustrious organization, the Kingsguard.

And perhaps it was just as well that no one asked Elia of her opinion on marriage. Her fate would not have changed.

She was a princess doomed to marry the dragon-prince and to die in blood. Arthur was a second son who had chosen to don the white cloak. While black may hide red, white cannot.

It was as these questions abounded amongst the Dornish populace that the royal houses of the Seven Kingdoms converged on Lannisport to celebrate the birth of Viserys Targaryen, the second prince to grace the halls of King's Landing. Tywin Lannister spared no expense at pomp and ceremony. Attendees whispered that the Hand of the King was not satisfied with whispering in the king's ear; he also wanted his daughter in the bed of the heir to the throne.

The Lannisters and the Martells still sported injured pride over the thought of marriage. Years ago, when Tyrion the Imp was born, and Joanna Lannister had died giving birth to him, House Martell visited Casterly Rock to pay their respects. There, marriages between Tywin's son and Elia, and his daughter and Oberyn were suggested. Tywin had scoffed at the Martells' offer, claiming that Cersei was meant for the Targaryen prince, not a snake of the desert. Of course, the ruling family of Dorne left Casterly Rock smarting from the slight and continued to feel its sting three years later.

Therefore, it was against this backdrop of bygone injuries to pride and vaulted hopes for political ascension that the tourney commenced.

And what an event it was. The first day undoubtedly belonged to Prince Rhaegar, newly knighted and all of seventeen years old. A true Targaryen heir, they called him. He was tall and strong, with flowing silver locks and the same eerie Valyrian eyes that only true descendants of the Freehold possess. Not only did he he defeat two Lannisters of renown, Tygett and Gerion, he also captured several hearts of men and women alike.

Cersei was not one of those who fell at the tourney for the handsome Targaryen prince. She, misled by the words of her father and aunt, had already dreamt of Rhaegar and more importantly, the throne he was to occupy one day, years and years ago. A child of barely ten, she already possessed a golden beauty and a petulant determination that spoke of a will as strong as any of the Dornish. Indeed, that was the manner in which she conducted herself as she made her way through the crowds of the tourney, mentioning her impending betrothal to all but the prince himself.

"And let her brag about her yet-to-happen conquest," Oberyn had remarked as he lounged in the rooms the family had been allotted in the Lannisport castle. "The she-lion deserves the dragonspawn. Any other man would go near her at the risk of getting mauled."

Elia offered her brother a wry smile and returned to her novel, a thick shawl around her shoulders. If Lannisport chilled her body to this point, she supposed that a visit to Winterfell might just turn her into a White Walker. Her body was ill-equipped to cold weather, she was quickly finding. She longed for the heat of the Dornish sun which, in the summer, would tan her skin into a fiery bronze.

"Thoughts, Elia?" Oberyn quipped, not satisfied with his sister's lackluster response, and as always, she obliged.

"I don't know, Oberyn. She is a beautiful girl. Perhaps you should try her bed and see what happens. A Dornish man can burn as harshly as a Targaryen, no?"

"Yes, but a Dornish man is smart."

* * *

The tourney was as much a social event as it was an athletic melee. During the nights after the jousting, archery, and other events, the castle and town were alight with the sounds of raucous merrymaking.

In the banquet hall, tables upon tables were laid with dishes from every corner of Westeros: all sorts of meat lathered in savory, tangy sauces, vegetable stews from Winterfell to spice-laden curries from Dorne, freshly baked rolls and breads for dipping, rich ciders, fruity wines, and candied delicacies to feed all of the nobility of the Seven Kingdoms and the scavengers mulling in the streets to boot.

The conversation was not be forgotten either. Ladies squawked and simpered, lords boasted and brawled while the bastards and servants looked on mournfully from the sidelines, a part of the celebration and yet not. Betrothals were made and broken, threats of war broke out at least three times before each was forgotten in hearty tankard of beer, and unfailingly, all eyes drifted at some point during the festivities from the taciturn King Aerys who sat upon his vaulted chair, to the irate Tywin Lannister to his right, and finally, to the shining Prince Rhaegar on his left. Queen Rhaella, it was rumored, did not feel well and had chosen to remain at King's Landing, nursing the newborn and whatever wounds her husband had inflicted upon her.

That first night, the Martell siblings, by either luck or sheer oversight on Tywin's part, were seated next to the Lannister brood, who were, of course, seated next to the ruling family. Elia's mother was taking dinner in her chambers, reliving her time of being a lady-in-waiting to the queen with a few forgotten friends. Her father Ryad, on the other hand, had drank too much before the banquet and was nursing a pounding headache in the family's rooms. As a result, Elia had the true pleasure of meeting Jaime, the golden twin of the golden Cersei, and of seeing Oberyn squirm next to the beguiling she-lion herself. Doran, the lucky bastard, had escaped Oberyn's misfortune by being tied up back in Dorne, enjoying all the responsibilities that came with being the crown prince.

"Tell me, Lady Elia; how are the women of Dorne?" Jaime queried of her, boldly sucking on a ripe strawberry from the tart on his plate as he gazed at her, brow furrowed comically and a mischievous smirk firmly planted on his face.

Elia laughed brightly at the ten-year-old's cheek and responded gamely, "How do you mean- in bed or in battle? Regardless of what you have heard of us savage Dornes, we see them as very different things."

Curiously flirtatious and cosmopolitan for one so young, Jaime struck Elia as the kinder of the two twins. He was by no means an angel- that tongue had known sin, she was sure of it- but he had a sort of nobility behind the bravado whereas Cersei had a cruel antipathy and disregard for anything not immediately useful. With time, he could become the knight in shining armor, and while Cersei might make play at being the damsel, Elia pondered if the girl might not be the dragon guarding the tower instead.

She certainly stalked her prey like a beast. Elia had never met nor seen Prince Rhaegar in the flesh before, but the man looked cornered and bemused by Cersei's mannerisms. She giggled, she groused, and she practically threw her body upon his. Even Oberyn, licentious as he was, looked disgusted, although that may have been due to the girl herself.

During rare moments when Cersei turned her attention away from Rhaegar and to Jaime, Elia was allowed to gaze around the enormous hall, make pointed faces at Oberyn, or try to spy out Arthur. He had ridden well that day, as she and Oberyn had expected. Elia had bet her friend and Arthur's sister Ashara, who was nowhere to be seen in the hall, that Arthur just might win the final tilt. However, seeing the magnificent competition on display at the tourney, Elia had to concede that her betting abilities may have been misdirected.

The true excitement of the night came only after the feasting, when the dancing walls were hung with magnificent tapestries, each emblazoned with the symbol, colors, and words of the Great Houses. Alcohol was being delivered liberally, and there was many a drunk man and woman stumbling around before being escorted outside for fresh air. Elia had a grand view of her brother from her seat amongst the cushions, seat, and sofas scattered along the periphery of the dance hall. Oberyn was in his element, switching from one partner to the next, gliding close to whichever woman he held in his questing arms and slipping away before he could be caught for impropriety. More often than not, he left a very willing partner behind looking forlorn as he quickly bounced to his next conquest.

She laughed aloud when one particularly eager woman in the colors of House Greyjoy latched onto Oberyn's robe as he made his escape, nearly unclothing him as he hastened to get away. In the ensuing debacle, Oberyn had stepped on the train of Cersei Lannister's impeccably stitched green gown, causing her to trip and fall with her partner, a dark-haired youth from Riverrun. No one dared laugh- how could they; Tywin would've had their heads- but the Mad King, who roused himself out of his black mood with a few bouts of cruel, mocking guffaws.

"This is the pride of the Lannisters? Yes, I see what you've been breeding in the Westerlands now, Tywin!" Aerys roared.

But it all ended well for Cersei, who, despite her reputation, was still a child and close to tears at the embarassment. Elia felt pity for the girl, but soon reneged on the sentiment when Rhaegar, ever the dutiful prince, swooped in for a dance with Cersei, and the threat of tears was replaced with the threat of a perpetual smug smirk.

Elia left the hall soon after; as the night progressed, the air grew heady with the scent of men and women and the unspeakable sexual tension in the air. Oberyn had disappeared with some woman or a man- Elia wasn't very sure whom, but she knew she would find him staggering into her bedchambers at some point the next morning smiling like a fox.

Slowly, Elia made her way to the winding gardens outside. The weather was surprisingly pleasant, sitting at that wonderful interval between hot and cold. Whatever she may feel about the Lannisters and the north, Elia had to concede that the topiary was beautiful and tastefully done to represent the house mascot.

She was observing a particularly intricate rendering of a lion cub next to his mother when she heard loud, strident voices coming towards her in the gloom.

"It had nothing to do with you!"

"You are my sister! You are my responsibility and-"

"No, I am my own responsibility, then Elia's, and only then _yours_."

Ashara. And Arthur.

"-you do not know who you are toying with. He is not one of your silly games, Ashara!"

"Well, you wouldn't know a game from the real thing anyway, would you?"

Silence. A taunting, beckoning, provoking kind of silence.

"Don't presume to know what I have with-"

"I presume nothing. I don't need to presume when one look at both of your faces tell me all I need to know. She's not a game to you, Arthur. And he is not to me. Goodnight, brother."

Elia gathered the folds of her northern, stuffy gown and waited primly for the duo to emerge. Ashara swept by her a moment later, emerging from the darkness of the garden like a raven nymph, barely acknowledging Elia's presence as she left the premises. Arthur emerged a moment later and stood by Elia's side, watching his sister's retreating back and not at all looking shocked at her presence. His white cloak swung softly behind him.

"Arthur…"

"Don't."

"She's in a mood. She hates it here, you know that."

"So do you."

"I hide it better. So do you. But her and Oberyn are suffocated here. It makes them tetchy."

Arthur gazed at Elia contemplatively, absorbing the vision of the moonlight bouncing off her glossy hair, her lustrous brown eyes, the cherry lips, and golden skin. In that moment, he thought for the thousandth time, _if only_.

And she thought back, _only if_.

"Do you know him?"

"No, Arthur. I don't. She won't tell. Not even to me."

"Not even...But you can get anything out of anyone. You just have to wheedle them with your eyes and your voice, and they'll melt."

Elia threw her head back, laughing at the flattery. He stared at her throat, the arch of it, the expanse of it, and wished once more.

"Arthur, if I could wheedle my way out of anything, my life would not be the one I am living right now."

"And what would you change?"

She considered being honest. But this was the land of the Lannisters, and caution was not a luxury here; it was a necessity.

"This dress. It wears me, not the other way around. If I could throw it away, I could."

"That can be arranged."

Elia looked at Arthur then- really looked at him. He was smiling lazily, disarmingly, handsomely. His hair was sweaty and clung at the tips to his tanned face. His eyes were blue like the sky on a clear day. Elia wished then, just as he had.

"You've been drinking."

"Yes. I suppose I have."

"My, my. A member of the Kingsguard, abandoning his post, arguing with his sister, flirting with a maiden, and now _drinking_? What would the king say?"

"He would say nothing because he will not find out. Besides, it makes me bold."

"And why would you need to be bold?"

It was not a question so much as it was a grant of permission. He had asked; she had responded, and yet, the word "kiss" was never uttered. But as it turned out, it did not need to be.

In the end, they both moved closer- willingly, longingly- to the other, and all at once and for all too brief of a moment, a doomed woman met a doomed man for the first and last time.

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 **Thank you to all who read, favorited, and followed! I will try to update every Thursday, but the day might shift to Saturdays occasionally! Please review if you enjoyed!**


	3. A Song, A Dance, and Longing

**No copyright infringement intended. All recognizable characters, places, events, etc. belong to George R. R. Martin.**

* * *

The tourney at Lannisport ended in a tumult of events that made it clear to all attending that all was not well between Tywin Lannister and his king.

To the disappointment of many, Prince Rhaegar had fallen in the final tilt to Arthur Dayne of the Kingsguard. Ever gracious, Ser Dayne offered a hand to his prince, bowed to him, and when the time came to crown the Queen of Love and Beauty, he dutifully marched to his sister, the Lady Ashara Dayne, and placed the wreath of white lilies in her lap. All clapped and cheered for the victor and their prince, but there were those in the stands who whispered amongst themselves excitedly, for they could have sworn they saw Ser Dayne hesitate a moment in front of Lady Elia before he moved along to crown his sister.

But any stirrings of possible scandal had been quickly swept away during the celebratory feast that night when Prince Rhaegar seated himself on the dias and began to play his harp. Elia had heard of his prowess on the instrument- indeed, all of Westeros had- but she had never truly believed its veracity until that night.

It was not a beautiful melody nor a cheerful one. Rather, it was melancholic song that spoke of pain and loneliness that swept through the hall, through the castle, and spilled into the streets of Lannisport until everyone, even the smallfolk, stilled to listen to their prince play. There were no words but that was just as well: speech would have tarnished the splendor of that mournful sonata.

Only after Rhaegar had plucked the last somber chord and rested his fingers on the base of the instrument was the silence broken with wild cheers and applause. The prince bowed his head and smiled gently.

Chattering resumed once again around her, but Elia continued to gaze at the dias and at the prince who was slowly raising himself from it. Attendants rushed to place the harp in its ivory case, but Rhaegar waved them off, bandaging the golden instrument in layers of silk before carefully laying it in the bosom of the case. Servants took it from him, and he nodded his appreciation to the before he descended the steps.

He was immediately claimed by Cersei, who grabbed his hand for a dance as the musicians struck up a lively tune. It seemed the silver-haired prince was a consummate dancer as well, Elia noted wryly; no matter how close Cersei seemed to press herself to his body, his steps did not falter.

Elia was still staring, she realized, when Oberyn suddenly appeared by her side and remarked, "Careful, sister, or the Lannister bitch might have to challenge you to a final tilt."

Elia broke her gaze and took a small sip of her wine. She immediately wished she hadn't; of the many things the Lannisters were known for, being fine brewers was not one of them.

"Oberyn, with the amount of attention you pay to Lady Cersei, one might think you had designs on her yourself. Perhaps it is the prince who should be on guard, hmm?"

Oberyn laughed and grabbed her elbow, saying, "And feel her claws in bed? I would rather keep my manhood intact, dear sister.

"Now, come. We must show these Northerners what a true dance looks like- the Dornish way!"

Elia laughed, nodded her acquiescence, and placed her wine on the tray of a nearby servant before her brother swept her to the center of the hall amid the dying strains of a Northern ballad.

Oberyn waved to the musicians, who struck the familiar nascent chords of a traditional Dornish song. Elia stood opposite from her brother as various couples, mostly from Northern families, quickly returned to their seats upon hearing the unfamiliar tune.

As the song swelled, Elia felt a mysterious tension leave her shoulders. Her body wove itself lithely in tandem with the familiar music, the cradle song of every Dornish child. Her feet struck the floor in perfect synchronization with the fast tempo. Her small hands held Oberyn's sure ones as he flung her away from him and, just as quickly, swung her back. The air felt electric and metallic. All she could see was her brother; all she could feel was the pure adrenaline, all she cared about was the pure elation of being free.

Elia smiled broadly, knowing her hair was flying wildly out of its meticulous coiffure, knowing her Dornish dress was baring her shoulders and ankles to the crowd of lecherous men, knowing that Cersei Lannister was standing somewhere in the room wishing Elia was dead, knowing that Arthur was dying as he watched her act so deliciously wanton, knowing that her body would hate her tomorrow, and knowing that at this very moment- for these next few minutes- she did not care because Elia Martell was going to _live_.

* * *

Despite her momentary exuberance, the remainder of the night did not end so innocuously for Elia. After she and Oberyn entertained their fellow Southerners and scandalized the rest of Westeros, dancing resumed as previously, albeit slightly more drunkenly and brazenly. The exertion quickly took its toll on her body, and Elia excused herself, smiling away Oberyn's concern and insisting that she was capable to making her way through a few corridors on her own.

Elia left the hall with her limbs aching and head spinning. She stumbled through the foreign hallways of the Lannister castle, growing increasingly unsteady and alarmed at her inability to find the east wing. Oberyn had told her how to return to their rooms; he had said to go left from the hall, then right, then the third left...or maybe it was another right? She was not entirely sure anymore.

The doors seemed to move when she reached for them. The shadows in the nooks and crannies began to encroach on her vision. Feeling overwhelmed with the urge to sit and relieve herself of her stomach's contents, Elia slumped behind a large tapestry depicting a Lannister ancestor. She vomited into the rushes littering the floor but quieted and covered her mouth upon hearing the loud, angry tones approaching her from further down the corridor.

"My king, I believe you misunderstand. Cersei would be-"

"I misunderstand nothing, Lannister! I will not have the prince, a Targaryen, bring to his bed a lioness! He is a dragon! A dragon! His blood will not defiled by coupling with your kind! Throw your daughter's cunt to someone who wants it. A Baratheon, perhaps. Or even better, a Stark. Guard the door, Arthur. And tell someone to bring me a wench."

Elia waited to hear the slam of an oak door and for Tywin Lannister's angry footfall to recede. She was very lost, indeed.

"Elia."

"Yes?"

Her voice sounded muffled from behind the tapestry, as did Arthur's from beyond it.

"Are you lost?"

"A little, yes."

Elia heard a sigh, felt the tapestry move to one side, and saw Arthur's shadowed shoulders before her.

"How did you know I was here, Arthur?"

"I saw you turn this way at the end of the corridor. Elia, how much did you hear?"

She did not answer.

"Elia, listen to me. No one must hear of this. It will eventually be known, but until tomorrow, no one must learn that the Lannisters have been rejected. Do you understand?"

Elia searched for his eyes, found that she could not see them in the darkness of the corridor, and simply nodded. He breathed out slowly, rested a hand on her elbow, and pulled her out into the soft glow of the torches resting along the stone walls. As she gazed at his stern face, his beautiful face, Elia was attuned to the calloused fingers pressing into her arm, to her own hands resting on his breastplate, and to the sweet, sweat-laced, beguiling scent of _Arthur_.

Longing had always been her companion- longing for health, longing for love- but the most acute desire she could feel was to preserve these few moments in a million where she was with her chivalrous knight of the white cloak.

Said knight's brow furrowed as he took in her appearance.

"Elia, are you well? You look pale. Did you not?"

She smiled wanly and leaned toward him imperceptibly.

"You know I did. I saw you. I saw your eyes following me, tracing my body."

"Elia, " he warned, his other hand coming to rest on her elbow so as to hold her at an arm's length from him.

She did not know why she was speaking so. It could not have been the wine; she had barely tasted any. It must have been the night, the melancholy of Rhaegar's music, the elation of the dance, the crushing knowledge that the man she loved would be torn from her in a matter of hours.

"Did you wish it was you? Did you long for it to be you by my side, not Oberyn? Did you wish-"

"Elia! Stop this!"

Now she was beginning to feel his frustration, too. She shoved him fruitlessly; his armor made it much too difficult to push him any considerable distance.

"Why, Arthur? Why should I stop? Do you not want to be reminded of what could have been? But is that not what life is for? To squander away the days, longing for what can never be had? Well, you cannot have me, Arthur. Just as I cannot have you. I can never have you."

He immediately softened, pulled her closer. He pressed a soft kiss on her brow, she clung to him, quivering at the feel of cold metal and warm man against her bare skin.

"My flower of Dorne, you shall always have me. I am yours first and then the king's and then the kingdom's. I promise, Elia. A life without you is a life dead."

Elia ducked her head, feeling the foolish petulance of her previous words wash over and shame her. Her childish feelings of self-pity had spilled from her bosom and through her mouth, culminating in re-opened wounds for both herself and Arthur.

"I know, Arthur. I am sorry. I do not know what came over me, why I said those things."

He said nothing, simply held her for a long, long while.

Their embrace was broken when a soft footfall was heard from further in the hallway. Slowly, Prince Rhaegar stepped out of the darkness, his silver hair shining gold from the torch fire.

Both Arthur and Elia put further distance between themselves and bowed.

"My prince, " Arthur intoned.

Rhaegar bowed his head, saying, "Arthur."

He turned to Elia, remarking, "Lady Elia, what brings you to the king's chambers?"

Elia understood the meaning behind his question, but she refused to blush or be cowed by its implication.

"I am afraid I lost my way, Your Grace. I saw Ser Dayne and while asking for instructions to the east wing, I am afraid I distracted him by talking to him of home."

Rhaegar nodded, accepting her explanation. He looked at Arthur, smiled slyly, and said, "Why, Ser Dayne, I had forgotten your Dornish heritage. Can you dance as boldly as House Martell?"

Arthur responded, "Not quite as well as Lady Elia and her brother, I am afraid. The Dune Dance is in their blood, I am afraid."

Smiles were exchanged all around, and the conversation lulled to a standstill. Understanding the time for her departure had come and gone long ago, Elia curtseyed and remarked, "If you shall excuse me, my Prince, Ser Dayne; I must return to my quarters before I am asked for."

To her surprise, Rhaegar responded, "Let me direct you to the east wing, Lady Elia. You said you had lost your way, yes?"

Elia confirmed his question and murmured her appreciation. As she left with the prince, she cast one last look at Arthur. He had steeled himself against the entrance to the king's chambers, looking as if he had been born to be in the Kingsguard.

 _Well, if he can put on a facade, so can I_ , Elia resolved. Then, she squared her soldiers, smiled gently at Prince Rhaegar, and stepped into the darkness that lay before her. And as they made the long trek through the castle, Elia once more felt like young girl, the same girl who had tearfully watched a young man with blue eyes ride away from Sunspear, her heart in his hand and a future that did not include her on his mind.

Little did Elia know that what she would soon overhear, the clandestine plans she would see being made between a prince and a princess in the darkness of a tourney night would return her to Arthur Dayne. But, he would no longer be Arthur Dayne of Starfall but Ser Arthur, the Sword of the Morning, destined to be as untouchable to her as the sun.

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 **2/19/18:**

 **Hi all, still not an new chapter, just a few edits. The changes in this one probably aren't that noticeable, but the next chapter is definitely different. Thanks to everyone who kept on commenting and reading this! I really appreciate the continued support!**


	4. A Deal Newly Struck

**No copyright infringement intended. All recognizable characters, places, events, etc. belong to George R. R. Martin.**

* * *

The year after Lannisport saw Elia reach her twentieth year and with this came the growing necessity in the eyes of her parents that she find a husband. After all, twenty was encroaching on mature and three and twenty was positively ancient. Time was running short, or so she was told.

Oberyn, of course, found this to be a grand jest.

"She is as lanky as a stable boy! What man will want a woman who can barely hold him between-"

But he was quickly silenced by the gradual outpouring of requests from various corners of Westeros, all asking to be graced with the presence of Elia Martell of Dorne.

But he was not quiet for long. Faced with the possibility of losing his beloved sister to men he was sure were unworthy of her, Oberyn fended off the suitors one by one, often with the power of wit, and a few by more...venomous means. Elia herself was not always so opposed to his intervention.

"Really, Oberyn, I rather liked that one," Elia remarked as they strolled along the pale marble walkways of the Water Gardens. Blood orange trees lined the pools and fountains, their green leaves falling gently into the clear embrace of the calm water below.

Oberyn glanced at her sideways. Her skin, already pale for one of the Dornish, had taken on a seemingly permanent pallor since the tourney at Lannisport. He still sorely regretted letting her leave the final feast without his aid, having found Elia crumpled in her bed the next morning with a chamberpot filled with vomit on the floor beside her.

"Really? Was it the rolls of fat along his middle? Or his leery eyes that always strayed to your chest?" he teased. "No, Elia, I think what entranced you the most was the enticing aroma of flatulence wafting from his fat behind."

Elia pretended to ponder and then nodded seriously, "Yes, you are right Oberyn. Ever since Baelor, I find myself oddly attracted to bodily odors."

Oberyn laughed alongside his sister, remembering the disastrous visit to Oldtown near the time Tyrion Lannister had been born. Baelor had been one of Elia's rare early suitors, when she had been barely thirteen, but the prospect had ended when he had accidentally broken wind in front of her and Oberyn. Oberyn guiltily recalled they had both rather like Baelor, especially in comparison with the current batch of admirers, but his unfortunate dubbing of him as "Baelor Breakwind" had prevented Elia from ever looking at the young man with a straight face again. Needless to say, Baelor had revoked his proposal.

After their laughter had subsided and all that remained was the happy gurgle of water from the surrounding fountains, Oberyn presented a question that had been floating around his mind and itching on his tongue for a few days. However, he felt a foreboding reluctance to voice it; he was afraid it might be answered in a way he might not like.

"Elia, I have heard something. A rumor that was told to me by...ah...a person of interest," he began, stumbling over how to divulge who had told him this tad bit of information.

"Meaning you heard it from one of your lovers," she filled in smoothly, adjusting the thin strap of her dress as she did so. She was well-accustomed to her younger brother's ways, bless her heart.

"Yes, well, the source was reliable enough for me to be concerned. What is this talk of Rhaegar Targaryen coming to Dorne?"

The laughter he had felt in her died, and Elia stilled. His sister stared blankly at the few children ahead of them who were splashing amongst the waters of a pool. Their happy squeals sounded like notes of music in the far distance. As he, too, gazed at the golden beauty of the Water Gardens, he felt his sister's fragile fingers brush his shirt sleeve as she guided him to sit beside her along the tiled rim of a clear pool.

"Elia?" he quipped when she still did not answer.

She turned her clear brown eyes to him. She _was_ pretty, his older sister, Oberyn realized. Her eyes were large and luminous, her eyebrows dark and arched, and her lips rosy and puckered. But she was too slight to be beautiful; her assets were too small and light to be pleasing to most men. Her cheeks were too hollowed, her face too long, and her skin too sickly to be considered much beyond attractive.

But his older sister had an inner fire that Oberyn had long admired, one that he knew was not always visible. She was unbent and unbroken and would forever remain so because she was a Martell before all else. But if what he had heard was true, Elia would need a fire stronger than the sun's to last amongst the dragons.

"Yes, he is coming to Dorne." She was not looking at him anymore but still at the children playing, oblivious to everyone and everything but their joy.

"Why?"

"Because Mother has invited him."

"Why?"

He knew why. He was as sure of why Prince Rhaegar Targaryen was coming to Dorne as he was sure that Elia would soon be leaving it, no matter how Oberyn may rave and plead and protest.

"Because the Targaryens want the Martells in their bed. And Mother wants to spite Tywin Lannister."

Oberyn started; he had rarely heard his sister speak in such an acerbic tone, much less in such bitter terms. His eyes followed her as she stood up slowly, still looking at the distant figures as she spoke.

"Daeron the Good married Myriah Martell centuries ago, before the Blackfyre Rebellion. And his sister Daenerys married Prince Maron of Dorne. The king and his queen and the princes all have Martell blood in their veins. And Rhaegar Targaryen has no sister to wed and bed, so they must look beyond King's Landing to the closest thing they have to kin here in Westeros."

She turned to him then, and he saw her eyes were wet crystals in the long expanse of her face. However, her voice only grew more resilient, more steely.

"The dragon's' eyes have roamed far and wide, my dear brother, and they have come to rest on the steps of Dorne once more. And they have found what they seek and what they mean to take, and we are not strong enough to resist them."

Oberyn stood, swiftly and powerfully, until he towered over his sister. He folded her into his arms, feeling her small body remain as still and dormant as marble, and he wondered how his always vibrant Elia could be so immobile, so corpse-like.

And for a moment, Oberyn was afraid. Dorne was her _home_. This was where she was loved, where she was safe, not in that cold castle where winter would come and never leave, where the Mad King reigned and raved, where Queen Rhaella cowered under her brother-husband's talons, where Prince Rhaegar sat cold and unmoving and played that cursed harp of his.

If Elia left Dorne, Oberyn was sure she would die. She would fight it, he knew, but that bright sun that flamed in her body would dim, and she would wither away her spirit as well as her body.

It was with these thoughts in mind that he whispered into her hair, "No. No Targaryen will take you away."

Elia drew away from him and smiled wanly, a dim crack of feeble sunlight peeking from beyond the dark clouds that gathered on her brow.

"My darling Oberyn. Don't you understand? He already has."

Oberyn stared, slightly confused.

"The night of the final feast at Lannisport, it was the prince who helped me to the room. He did not say much, but Mother saw him and while I went to bed, they had a private audience. He was interested in Dorne, he said. It was inevitable that he would have to marry, and that marriage would have to come from Dorne because its 'blood had already mingled.'"

She looked at a point beyond his shoulder, her words coming faster and faster as her tale was woven in the afternoon sunlight of the Water Gardens, the memory of that fateful night spinning through her mind.

* * *

 _"Thank you, Prince Rhaegar, for returning my daughter to me. I should have known better than to entrust her safety to her brother."_

 _Elia blushed slightly as her mother, the indomitable Princess Aida of Dorne, took in her daughter's disheveled appearance, her drained visage._

 _Rhaegar laughed softly, his deep timbre echoing in the darkened hallway._

 _"Please, Princess Aida. It was my pleasure; your beautiful daughter's company soothed the wound of being defeated at the hand of her countryman."_

 _Elia quirked her eyebrow at her mother's rejoining chuckle. Rhaegar had intended to flatter, but Princess Aida had seldom taken to vacuous compliments in the past, whether they had come from a lord or a commoner. Was it because the speaker was the Crown Prince that she so readily accepted his words?_

 _"Prince Rhaegar, I am flattered, as is Elia, I am sure."_

 _Elia smiled her gratitude at Rhaegar but she could not hide her irritation at being spoken for. It was a habit of her mother's but an annoying one nonetheless._

 _"Yes, you have built quite an impression of me, Prince Rhaegar, one that I am not sure is entirely warranted."_

 _The Prince smiled politely but the joy did not reach his eyes. No, the violet irises remained closed off, hiding his inner thoughts. Normally, Elia would have felt disconcerted, but, tonight, she simply felt too exhausted to care. Behind her mother was a feather bed, and on that feather bed lay pillows and a warm blanket and a long night's sleep._

 _"I truly appreciate your assistance, Prince Rhaegar, but I am afraid the night's revels has tired me. Now, if you will excuse me. Mother."_

 _Elia curtsied to the Targaryen and moved to slip past her mother but halted when she felt a soft grip on her wrist. It was the Prince. His eyes were open, now, and sincere._

 _"I hope to see you again, Princess Elia. I was not lying; I truly enjoyed our conversation tonight."_

 _Elia could not really remember what she had said to him that was so enlightening, but she smiled at him anyway, ignoring the fear that crept through her body at his words, the tendrils of cold that crept up from the calloused fingers enclosing her wrist._

 _"Thank you, Prince Rhaegar."_

 _Elia tugged her wrist slightly, and he let go, his eyes still vibrant- too vibrant, Elia now thought as she moved away. As she shifted past her mother, she felt the Princess' signet ring press into the palm of her left hand. A moment's cold touch, but it disappeared as Elia pushed into the chamber. Mother was planning something._

 _Elia walked slowly toward the door that led past the antechamber and into the sleeping quarters, listening for any more wisps of conversation but heard none. And, yet, Mother did not close the door on the Prince either._

 _As Elia entered the bedchamber, she heard a deep voice saying, "Princess, if I could have a word, in private?"_

 _Elia closed the door and leaned against it, breathing as quietly as she could lest she miss any of the words that were spoken next._

 _"Of course, Prince Rhaegar. Please, come into the drawing room; we will not be disturbed in here."_

 _Footsteps and the sound of chairs being scraped along the stone floor came through the screen of the wooden door._

 _"Princess Aida, as I am sure you have heard from...various sources, my father is intent on arranging a marriage for me. And…"_

* * *

"He said the king was still refusing to comply but that he would cave eventually. The king would never let Lannister blood into the Targaryen line, especially with Tywin as hungry for power as he was. It would be a matter of time, he said, until the request for my hand would come."

"What did Mother say?"

"She hates Tywin. She told him so, that she had been hoping for his words."

Princess Aida of Dorne was nothing if not blunt. She was a good mother, but she was a Martell first, a ruler second, and a mother and wife third.

"She said that she would consent, as would Father, when the time came, but that he would have to promise to protect me. She remembered Queen Rhaella and what the king does to her. He promised. And that was that."

"Does Mother know that you know?"

"Yes, of course. She hasn't told me herself, but she knew I was awake. She knew that I was listening. She knew that if I opposed the match, I would have said something to her."

Oberyn stared at her, the question clear on his face. How could she not oppose it?

"Elia, she wants to send you to _King's Landing_. You know what they say, about the Mad King- they call him the _Mad_ King, Elia! Use your brain!"

Elia whipped to look at him, irritation blazing in her eyes.

"I _do_ understand, Oberyn. I am using my brain, and if you would do the same, you would see why this marriage is important. I have driven away all suitors save the Stark children, and I will not let myself be married to a mere babe. I know what you will say, that being a woman of Dorne is not the same as being a woman of the Stormlands, that we have more power here. But, I am not just any woman. I am a Princess of Dorne, a valuable alliance for the Targaryens, and their support is an even stronger tool for us, for our people."

The words had flowed out in a stream, faster and faster until it had become a rushing river of desperation.

"Elia…"

Oberyn had words but none that would convince Elia to put this notion out of her head. He simply let his frustration consume his body, his anger at Rhaegar-fucking-Targaryen for thinking he could take his sister away, at Mother for saying yes, at Tywin Lannister for provoking her years ago, at the Mad King for being mad, at Myriah Martell for marrying a Targaryen in the first place, at Aegon Targaryen for bringing his dragons to Westeros, at the children playing happily in the Water Gardens even as his sister suffered-Oberyn wanted to stab something(preferably Rhaegar Targaryen's face).

Elia took a deep breath, looked at Oberyn, and smiled at the mingled pain and fury that resided in his eyes and on his face, in the twist of his jaw and the clench of his fists.

"Oberyn, I understand your anger. But I will be with Ashara and with Arthur. And the prince, if he turns out mad, I will not lay idly beneath him if he tries to rape me or beat me. I am of Dorne, after all. And the sun can burn more than any dragon's flame."

Oberyn did not respond, merely worked his jaw in continued fury as his sister pecked his cheek and walked away to play with the children in the fountains of their home.

* * *

 **2/19/18:**

 **Hello, all. Long time no see, I know, and I apologize for the hiatus. This isn't a new chapter, just a touchup, but I am working on the next bit in the story. It will be up soon, but I wanted to brush up on some serious flaws that I saw in the narrative first. Hopefully this will help the rest of the story flow a little better. Thanks for the patience, everyone!**


	5. The Dragon Meets the Sun

**No copyright infringement is intended. All recognizable names and plot characteristics belong to George R. R. Martin.**

* * *

The news of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen's impending visit had caused an uproar in Dorne. There was no love lost between the Dornish and the barbarians of the North, but Rhaegar was a favorite wherever he went, and the people could not resist a chance to glimpse the prince of whom they had heard so many fantastical tales.

In the streets, the young women talked about his prowess on the harp, among other skills.

"I've heard that his music brings tears to maiden's eyes in King's Landing."

"And no doubt many a girl to his bed as well."

In the training yards, the men discussed his ability with the sword, with the lance, _and_ , it was rumored, with the bow and arrow.

"A stable boy once told me his sword was forged with dragon fire, and whenever he swings it, a man in Westeros dies in terror."

"Let's hope next time he gets you. Idiot."

And everyone- every man, woman, and child who was able to wag his or her tongue- spoke of his famed Valyrian beauty, so different from the dark, luscious vivacity of Dorne.

"My cousin- she's a kitchen maid at King's Landing- says his hair sparkles like silver, and his eyes are as dark as the night sky."

"And he's not a weak man, I can tell you that. All muscle and sinew, the prince is."

He arrived with a small retinue- two members of the Kingsguard, his friend Jon Connington, and a few soldiers and bannermen. They breached the outer walls of Sunspear just before dusk, but regardless of the looming night, the entire city seemed to be awake as the band of horses and banners passed through the streets to the palace. The crowds were unrestrained in their cheers for their prince and for Ser Arthur Dayne, whose Dornish heritage was remembered by all.

Elia stood with her brothers and her parents on the steps of the castle. Her robes were the red and orange colors of House Martell, but her mother's gift, a dragon coil that was wrapped around her upper arm, reminded her to whom she would soon owe her allegiance. Princess Aida had smiled secretively when she had handed Elia the bauble; she did not know that her daughter realized the prince's visit was more than just a perfunctory journey. The golden jewelry had been cold when Elia first held it, and it remained cold against her bare skin. She could feel the intricate scales woven along the coil's length bite into her skin like animal's teeth.

Doran, normally careful and reserved, reached out his arm to brace her shoulders as the prince arrived at the foot of the steps and disembarked from his horse. Elia appreciated her elder brother's gesture of support and squeezed the hand on her shoulder with her own. She suspected that although her parents had not informed her of the impending betrothal, they had discussed it at length with Doran. She knew that like Oberyn, Doran disliked the Targaryens, but unlike Oberyn, he realized the political ramifications of refusing a proposal from King's Landing and had no choice but to accept the proceedings with reticent acceptance.

After all, what other option did they have?

The Dorne that Elia saw around her was not the Dorne that had once weathered Aegon's Conquest. The kingdom was already small, but recent terrorism from Essosi pirates who had drifted closer to Westeros had steadily drained the trading in ports and markets. The coffers had grown alarmingly small, but they could be filled again if ties to the throne were strengthened, and the traders were convinced of assured protection from the crown.

But there was more than just financial safety at stake. Elia knew her mother was a proud woman. Princess Aida could not and did not forget the slight Tywin Lannister had paid her family when the Hand had rejected the offer of Elia's hand to Jaime Lannister. Ensuring a marriage to the Targaryen prince, the very one who Tywin had sought for his own daughter, would be tantamount to kicking shit into the Lannister's mouth, and it was an opportunity Princess Aida could not ignore. And Prince Ryad was too weak, too easily coiled under his wife's thumb of control to resist.

It was not that Aida did not love her daughter. In fact, Elia was perhaps her most beloved child. Aida could not easily forget the pain of the two sons who were lost after Doran, the pain of almost losing Elia herself, and the pain of lying in blood, waiting for minutes to hear the wail of her daughter's cry. But even the love Aida held for her child took second seat to ensuring the future of Dorne and the honor of House Martell.

* * *

As the men disembarked, members of the Dornish household immediately rushed to take their steeds and belongings, and Rhaegar began trailing up the steps with sure, confident grace. Jon walked at his side, his red hair clashing against the sandstone facades of the buildings around them. They were followed by Arthur Dayne and Ser Harlan Grandison, an old but seasoned warrior who had begun his service under Jaehaerys II, Rhaegar's grandfather.

Prince Ryad and Princess Aida stepped forward to greet their future king, and Rhaegar smiled charmingly at them, returning their warm chorus of welcome with his own barrage of gratitude for their hospitality.

He had appreciated the princess' immediate acceptance of his proposal back at Lannisport. Realizing that his father was too suspicious of Tywin Lannister to accept the offer of Cersei's hand, Rhaegar had had to plan quickly. It was not as if he hadn't noticed Elia Martell, Rhaegar had told himself when he had first presented his idea to Princess Aida. Her name had been mentioned by the members of the Small Council as a possible bride, and she was the only one whom his father had not rejected with an outright proclamation. In addition, Rhaegar had long heard of her charm and kindness from her uncle, Prince Lewyn Martell, a member of the Kingsguard, and through Arthur Dayne, whose sister was an especial friend of Princess Elia. She was, all in all, his best option, especially in light of the closer alliance with Dorne that a marriage to its princess would bring, and Dorne's ferocity was something Rhaegar would need to ascend the throne.

The three Martell siblings stood behind their parents, politely but decidedly distant. As he turned to greet them, it was unmistakeable to Rhaegar that the sons, Doran and Oberyn, did not care for his presence. Doran, whom Arthur had already warned him was a stoic man, had a slight furrow to his brow as he took in his sister's soon-to-be-betrothed. But his disapproval did not concern Rhaegar as much as the barely tempered anger on his brother's face did. Despite his broader shoulders and bolder face, Oberyn Martell cut a very similar image to his brother, but the slight cunning in the youngest Martell's eyes reminded Rhaegar exactly _why_ the man was called the Red Viper despite being barely twenty years of age.

However, the person who interested him the most of the entire Dornish ensemble was not the noble father nor the proud mother nor the angry sons, but the small, wispy figure who stood flanked and was almost hidden by her brothers.

And when he saw her, Rhaegar's heart sank.

Marriage had never interested Rhaegar. He was a man who was born in sadness, who breathed it in every day, and who would die cloaked in its embrace. He may have wished, once or twice, as he sat in the loneliness of King's Landing that he had someone to caress away his pain, but he had buried those dreams long ago, resolving that he had no right to bring someone into the despair of his world.

But time and circumstance had changed, and Rhaegar Targaryen needed a strong wife, one who was capable of fulfilling the demands of a husband. He needed a strong wife because his mother was sitting in King's Landing with bruises on her arms and scratches on her face, because he knew that his mad father was getting madder every day, and because that accursed prophecy had promised salvation from the madness of the Targaryens- from the madness of _his_ blood.

Elia Martell was not strong, at least not in body. He had heard rumors, of course, of her sickly constitution and premature birth, and he had felt her too angular form when she had stumbled against him during their long trek back to her rooms that night in Lannisport.

But Rhaegar had swept those notions aside when he recalled seeing her dance, looking like a sunbeam with more life in her small body than Cersei Lannister could ever hope to contain in hers. Seeing her flit around the room, hand in hand with her brother, Rhaegar had seen an inner fire that burned bright enough to match any dragon's flame, and he knew then that he had found his queen, the mother of his prince that was promised.

The Elia Martell that stood before him now was still more planes than curves, but her fire had not dimmed. Nevertheless, Rhaegar's heart still sank because her lustrous brown eyes were not lit with joy as he had last seen them. No, her eyes- indeed, Elia herself- burned at him with a storm of hostility and fear.

Yes, Rhaegar was a man born in sadness, but it was clear to see that Elia was not. Dorne had nursed her from her cradle with the nectar of happiness, and for a single moment, he felt guilt burden his heart like it never had before.

By taking Elia Martell as his bride, by taking her to his bed, by making her his queen and the mother of his children, Rhaegar would be feeding an innocent woman to the dragons, and the flame of her beautiful spirit could not save her.

So it was with the weight of his impending sin in his mind that Rhaegar Targaryen brushed his lips across her hand and quietly chanted in his mind, _forgive me_.

But he knew already that she never would.

* * *

Even if Elia could have read Prince Rhaegar's thoughts, she could not have comprehended them. From the moment her eyes were able to distinguish the individuals of the party, Elia had ignored all else but the young man with the blue eyes and the white cloak.

Elia had tried, in the past few months, to slay her feelings for Arthur, and for a time, she had been convinced of her success. When letters arrived from King's Landing, Elia restrained herself from earnestly searching for his name in the missives Uncle Lewyn had sent. She schooled herself from smiling like a fool when Ashara spoke of him in daily conversation. And after some time and effort, she no longer had to consciously stop herself; dulling her love for Arthur had become an instinct.

But when she saw that face- that frustratingly beautiful face- and when those blue, blue eyes met hers, Elia's heart fluttered like it had done years and years ago when Arthur Dayne of Starfall had kissed her underneath the shaded leaves of a blood orange tree, and she had first tasted the sweet tang of citrus on his lips. Whatever shutters she had drawn closed on her emotions were flung open with a bang, and Elia could not help but curse him silently and blissfully in her mind as the ferocity of her love for him overtook her body and left her trembling with a happiness that made her glow with want.

But then her sight shifted to the man standing beside him, the man he was sworn to defend with his life. Prince Rhaegar Targaryen was tall, lithe, built, and handsome. His eyes were as dark indigo as the midnight sky, and his silver locks glowed with golden starlight against the setting sun. He was a beautiful man, but when she saw him, the sunshine that had warmed her heart died, and all Elia could feel was the fingers of fate inch its claws down her back.

And those fingers left her feeling colder than she had ever felt before.

Colder than she had felt in the Lannister castle, colder than she had felt hearing her mother bargain her to the Targaryens, colder than when she had revealed the truth to Oberyn, and colder than she had ever felt in the days and months leading to this moment of seeing the dragon prince at her doorstep.

But she did not let her coldness show. No, Elia of House Martell, Princess of Sunspear, and woman of Dorne smiled.

Elia smiled as Prince Rhaegar bent over her fingers and briefly pressed his dry lips to her skin. She smiled as he explained he was pleased to meet her properly. She smiled as he took her arm in his and walked behind her parents to the interior of the palace. And she smiled as a tall, white cloaked young man who held her heart in his arms, stalked only a few yards behind them.

* * *

It was raining outside. It rarely rained in the desert kingdom, but the sky had to spill its burden at some point, and it chose to do so through a resounding storm that battered the palace walls with screeching winds and buffeting sheets of rain.

The party from King's Landing had all been settled in following a brief feast. Due to their belated arrival, it was decided that a proper welcome could be postponed till the next evening. Nevertheless, Elia did not fail to notice that she had been placed directly adjacent to Prince Rhaegar during their dinner. Fortunately, the prince had seemed too occupied talking to her father about recent events, especially the tragic deaths of Steffon Baratheon and his wife, Cassanna, at Shipbreaker Bay.

Elia had heard the Mad King had been enraged upon hearing the news; the late Lord Baratheon had been friends with the king since they were young men, and it was rumored that the king had intended to have Steffon Baratheon replace Tywin Lannister as his Hand, especially since Lord Baratheon, not the Hand, had been sent to Volantis to find a Valyrian bride for Rhaegar. Of course, Steffon Baratheon had failed. _Or else I would not be sitting next to the Mad King's son_ , thought Elia with some bitterness coursing through her mind.

Even months after she had heard him speak to her mother, Elia could not help but resent him for his selfish actions, for they were selfish. He certainly did not propose marriage because he loved her. He barely knew her beyond her name and lineage. He proposed because he needed her kingdom's allegiance and because he needed her womb, and as crown prince to the Iron Throne, he had the authority to request, if not outright demand, for her hand and to not be denied.

If it had been anyone else, Elia would not have reacted with such animosity. After all, if it was not Rhaegar, it would be another stranger with whom she would eventually have to share her bed, but her anger towards him was fuelled by another emotion.

Fear.

No matter what she had told Oberyn, Elia was afraid. She was afraid of Rhaegar, and she was afraid of what her future with him would bring and not just because it would tear her from Dorne.

She had grown up hearing whispered horrors from her mother about King Aerys, his cruelty toward Queen Rhaella. And everyone in the Seven Kingdoms had heard about the fate of the Jaehaerys' nursemaid and her family after the infant prince had died, long before the birth of Viserys. They were tortured to death beneath the Red Keep, accused of a murder they had never committed. Everyone knew how Aerys' madness only seemed to multiply after the disaster at Duskendale. Even in Dorne, where the men and women were raised among sand vipers, the people had recoiled when they heard of Aerys' wrath toward Denys Darklyn and his family and the macabre deaths they had all been submitted to.

Regardless of what she had seen and heard of Rhaegar, Elia was wary of him as well. She had long heard from Arthur, through his letters to Ashara, that the prince was kind, a man who favored music to swords, that he bore more resemblance to Rhaella than to Aerys. She had heard much the same from her uncle on the Kingsguard. Elia had seen evidence of this at Lannisport in how kindly he had treated Cersei, how respectfully he had behaved towards Elia herself, how beautifully he had played on the dias.

But Elia also remembered how ferociously he rode in the tourney, how his ebony armour seemed to attract darkness to it, how his red lance had gleamed until she could no longer distinguish the metal from the blood of Rhaegar's opponents.

However hard she tried, Elia could not put aside these dark thoughts, nor could she ignore what she had been taught since birth:

The blood of dragons was tainted with madness.

And as hard as Elia tried to remember that she was a Martell, that she was a woman of Dorne, she could not forget that, ultimately, she was also human, and that to be human was to break.

* * *

 **I realize this is an early update, but I happened to finish the next chapter a few days earlier than planned because I realized I would be without Internet access later this week and wouldn't be able to update on schedule.**

 **Anyway, we'll get to see some direct Rhaegar/Elia interaction in the next few chapters, but I think I've started laying the groundwork for their later relationship. Also, this is the longest chapter yet, and my goal for future chapters is to hit this length (or somewhere around it) as well.**

 **As always, thank you for reading, and please let me know what you think with a review/favorite/follow. Speaking of reviews, thank you to everyone who has written one so far. I love writing this story, and I love hearing from my readers as well!**


	6. When In the Water Gardens

**No copyright infringement intended. All recognizable characters, places, events, etc. belong to George R. R. Martin.**

* * *

At almost twenty years of age, Rhaegar Targaryen was a man. No, he was more than a man; he was the crown prince who hailed from an age-old dynasty that considered its members to be bonafide dragons.

This was something Elia had to remind herself periodically as she glanced over at the man beside her, the man who looked more like a child as his eyes stretched wide in boyish amazement at the splendor of the Water Gardens.

The rain from a few days past had long since dried, but the much-needed moisture had revitalized the beauty of the flowers and refilled the fountains and streams to their brim. The blood oranges were bursting from the trees, and the frolicking children eagerly picked them from the branches, sending the waft of citrus floating along the breeze. It was a beautiful day.

She had been surprised when the prince had approached her and requested that she accompany him to visit the Water Gardens, a place that he had heard much about from Lewyn and Arthur but had never had the opportunity to visit. During Rhaegar's sojourn at Dorne, he had remained in close quarters with her parents and Doran, leaving Elia, Ashara, and Oberyn to entertain his friend, Jon Connington, and whichever Kingsguard member he chose to leave behind. Almost always, Rhaegar chose Ser Harlan to accompany him during the meetings, which Elia suspected was the prince's way of letting Arthur enjoy his first visit to his home in years.

She knew she should not have been grateful to Rhaegar for giving her those stolen hours by Arthur's side. She knew that she should still the feelings she continued to harbor for a man who had not only sworn an oath of celibacy but also one of fidelity-to Elia's soon-to-be betrothed, of all men. But, it was difficult, and when she walked along the streets of Sunspear by his side, Elia felt the distance of years and station disappear, filled by the easy, innocuous rapport of childhood friendship and fledgling love. If Oberyn or Ashara noticed, they said nothing. And, as for Jon Connington, he was much too busy exploring the mysteries of the Sandship and the Shadow City to pay attention to the gentle way Arthur stole glances at Elia or to the inevitable manner with which she drifted to his side. As a foreigner, he took considerable interest in the ways of the Dornish, who were so different from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms in more than just looks. Dornish culture imbued brazenness in everything: in the people, the art, even the food. Elia would forever remember how Jon's face had changed when he accidentally bit into a dragon pepper, a delicacy even a native Dornishman ate with caution, during a visit to a Shadow City bazaar. The man's pale face had immediately turned as red as his hair, and they had all laughed at his runny nose and tear-laden eyes, the latter of which remained watery for the rest of the evening.

Elia rather liked Jon Connington. He was headstrong and did not mince words. He was unintentionally funny, with a sardonic brand of humor that left no one unscathed in its wrath, whether it be a fly on the windowsill or his own prince. He was rather Dornish in terms of his brashness, Elia thought, but in all other aspects, from his stifling style of dress to his hatred for the harsh heat, he was a Northerner. Nevertheless, he never objected to Oberyn dragging him out at night to one brothel or another and always returned less than sober before dawn.

Curiously, he apparently never partook in the night's recreations. Oberyn had confided in Elia that while Jon drank enough to put Robert Baratheon to shame, he never bedded anyone.

"He probably sneaks away with someone while you are otherwise engaged, Oberyn. No man is particularly attentive when he is in the heat of the moment; not even you, little brother," Elia had teased while she and Oberyn reclined in her solar.

It had been the day after Jon had embarrassed himself in the bazaar, and Elia was feeling the wear and tear of the previous day's excursions a bit too strongly. She had come back to the palace from the Shadow City, collapsed, and slept the entire afternoon, night, and half of the next day. Of course, her bones still hurt, and her head pounded even after her partial hibernation, but the pain was alleviated by Oberyn's presence. He had decided to keep her company, leaving Connington to the capable hands of Ashara and Arthur for the day.

"I swear upon my cock that I have never seen Jon Connington touch a woman. Or a man, for that matter," Oberyn had promised solemnly to her quip. His lips had broken away into a sly grin immediately after his proclamation, duly dimming its trustworthiness.

A moment of peaceful silence ensued, and then, "Perhaps he is a eunuch. Care to find out for me, sister?"

Elia plucked a small candied orange from the dish in her solar and plopped it into her mouth before replying nonchalantly, "Only if Prince Rhaegar will join me."

They were still laughing during dinner that night, earning no short amount of stern glances from Doran and their mother at their barely stifled giggles. For a moment, it was if the Baelor Breakwind fiasco had been reborn, but Elia quickly sobered when she remembered that unlike with the case of sweet Baelor, a facetious cognomen would not suffice in driving away this particular suitor.

Regardless of Oberyn's japes, there was a reason behind Jon's lack of interest, and it was not that he had been castrated. Elia was sure that Oberyn had guessed it as well. It was obvious, if one looked, from the way Jon trailed his prince, the way he argued with and teased him mercilessly, the way he subtly stood taller when he- and only he- entered the room, and from the way his eyes had flashed when Rhaegar had asked Elia to take a turn with him around the Water Gardens.

She had seen a similar emotion in Arthur's eyes as she had brushed past him to take Rhaegar's proffered hand in her own, a hand that was now wrapped around his elbow as they walked among the rustling streams, Ashara and Jon walking together far behind them.

Elia had glanced at the prince several times during their long trek. He was taller than her by at least two hands' lengths and perhaps three times as broad at the shoulders. He moved with the authority of a ruler, but the few times he had caught her eye, he had smiled at her with a quiet shyness.

"This is your first visit to Dorne, is it not, Your Grace?" Elia asked. She was not as interesting of a conversationalist as Oberyn, but even she felt the danger of letting a discussion lag as long as it had during their walk. The pair of them had barely spoken past Rhaegar's initial request for her company.

"Yes, it is. It was kind of Lady Aida to accept my request to visit," he replied.

Elia glanced at him swiftly before staring ahead and commenting lightly, "In Dorne, we say 'Princess.'"

Silence. Then, "I beg your pardon?"

Elia laughed without humor at his bemused expression, "No need to look so startled, Your Grace. In Dorne, the head of the ruling family is addressed as 'Prince' or 'Princess,' not 'Lord' or 'Lady' because we alone withstood Aegon and his sisters. You will soon find, Your Grace, that we Dornish are not so easily conquered."

He knew all of this, of course. Elia had long heard tales of how the first Targaryen prince was more a scholar than a warrior in his heart. But, she thought smugly, it would not hurt to remind him exactly _where_ he was and _whom_ he was addressing.

And it did have some of the desired effect: the prince stopped walking and stared at her, in surprise or irritation, she could not tell. Elia, too, paused and waited beside him, her gaze never leaving his, her hand still on his elbow. His face was stoic and calm, but his eyes were turbulent as they gazed down upon her, and for a moment, Elia wondered if her impetuous comment had been _too_ impetuous. He was, after all, heir to the Iron Throne. Nevertheless, she was a woman who was too proud to apologize for her words, and so she left them smoldering in the air between them.

He looked at her, and she looked at him, and as indigo met brown, and Targaryen met Martell, a mutual understanding passed from a man to a woman without a word ever leaving their lips.

"Yes," he whispered softly to her, "I remember. My apologies, Princess. I had forgotten how different Dornish customs were."

"You do not need to apologize and least of all to me, Your Grace."

"Please, call me Rhaegar."

"I would rather not. It would be improper, I fear. You see, we are neither family nor are we friends."

 _As if the Dornish ever cared about impropriety_ , they both thought but never said aloud.

"Perhaps one day we will be."

"Today is not that day."

"But when it comes, will you be ready?"

 _When_. There was such a finality to _when_. _When_ was a decision. _If_ was a choice. She wanted a choice. She wanted to scream in this silver-haired man's face, scream long and hard into his damned eyes that _no_ , it was not _when_ but _if_ , and it was not set it stone but set in water, and water could change and flow and shift, and it was never final until _she_ said so.

But in the end, Elia did not respond, and the silence stretched into oblivion. In the back of her mind, she saw blue eyes, but they were quickly swallowed by a white cloak and a glowing sword. Slowly, she took a few step backwards and held out her hand. It was not an acceptance; rather, it was an invitation, a challenge, a proverbial glove tossed onto the castle steps.

He may have won her hand. He may have won her kingdom. But he had yet to win her.

 _If_. Not _when_. Water. Not stone.

"Would you like to try a blood orange, Your Grace? I believe they are quite rare in King's Landing."

* * *

When she was well beyond her years and dead in the ground, the annals of history would call her beautiful.

Which, of course, Ashara was, but what would remain unsaid was her intelligence, her obstinance, her pride, and her fierce sense of loyalty to Elia, to herself, and to her family.

And it was that unwavering loyalty that kept Ashara walking beside Jon Connington, for she knew that he would not let Elia walk in peace with the prince. Connington had not bothered her during previous outings at Sunspear. On the contrary, he had been a source of amusement with his foreign Northerner ways. But at the Water Gardens, he had adopted a taciturn air that had robbed the joy from the day and had sunk her own spirits. The man refused to engage in conversation, to retreat to the shade of the terraces, or to play with the children. Ashara could have been walking alongside a mobile marble statue, and there would have been nary a difference.

And when the irascible Jon Connington finally spoke, it was simply to bite out, "Where did they go?"

Ashara looked up from the entrancing activity of picking at her gown and hummed noncommittally. She had not heard what said, for she was too busy being irritated at his awful company.

Connington flexed his arm slightly as he stretched his neck, trying to look beyond the grove of orange trees ahead.

"I asked, where is Rhaegar?"

Ashara shrugged indifferently. Frankly, she didn't give a damn where the prince was. Well, that was not entirely true; he was a very handsome man. She had never seen a person outside of her family with eyes such as her own. The Daynes of Starfall were unique in Dorne for their looks, for they were pale rather than swarthy, and violet irises like those of the Targaryens were not uncommon within the family. However, Ashara's fascination with Prince Rhaegar did not extend much beyond wondering at his beauty, for the prince was as melancholy as a raincloud. He rarely laughed, and even his smiles rarely reached beyond his lips. Ashara pitied the prince for his impenetrable despondency, but she pitied Elia even more because she would have to marry the man one day.

There were few secrets Elia could keep from her, and this one had also spilled from Elia's lips the night of the prince's arrival. She had been an inconsolable mess, sobbing tears that seemed to flow without cessation. Ashara had been shaken, to say the least. After the feast, she had happened upon her childhood friend lying in her chambers with crazed bloodshot eyes, mucus dripping down her nose, and hands gripping her frail body so tightly that her fingers left angry red marks.

As with everything else, the Dornish were passionate in their emotions, and Elia was no exception- except with regards to grief. She could not help her weak constitution nor her small frame, but she did not allow her appearance to control her behavior. Even when her body betrayed her with aches and stabs of immeasurable agony, Elia simply smiled away the pain for however long it was required of her. Then, at the first available opportunity, she would take refuge in her chambers, curl into a tiny ball, crush her fist to her mouth to muffle the evidence of her weakness, and refuse to allow anyone but her mother to enter.

Ashara did admire her to an extent for her willpower, but she also thought Elia a fool for being ashamed of something that was beyond her control. No one- not anyone in Dorne, at least- would judge her for betraying her feelings. And really, who truly mattered beyond her own friends and family?

Ashara could remember every instance she had seen Elia's tears, for there were not many: when a beggar child who often played at the Water Gardens had died of grayscale, when Arthur had left for the Kingsguard, when Ashara's mother had passed, and finally, after the dragon prince came.

That night, Ashara had held in her arms a woman who was, in that moment, more of a girl afraid of the future than anything else. Ashara, a person who wore her heart and her mouth on her sleeve, had not cried that night because Elia's tears had held all the sadness they both felt. Their sorrow had saturated the room until Ashara felt choked by it all. She had to leave for the cool escape of the night air, had to breathe in something other than the salt of Elia's despair.

And as Ashara had stood aside staring at the distant blinking stars, knowing that Elia was lying in her rooms sound asleep and crying softly in her dreams, Ashara had made a vow. The annals of history may only remember her for her beauty, but Elia would remember her for being the woman that kept her laughing. She would never let her friend break again, not as long as Ashara had breath in her body and a voice with which to speak. The dragons would not destroy her friend again.

But Jon Connington did not know of her promise, and frankly, Ashara did not think he would care because his mind was settled solely on finding the prince.

"They were just ahead of us and now they've suddenly disappeared!"

"Perhaps they went inside to the terraces? Or decided to frolic in the fountains, get a little wet?"

Connington made a guttural noise rather like a bear about to charge and stormed away. Ashara snorted. She hoped he did not get lost in the Gardens; she pitied the envoy who would be tasked with finding him.

Ashara briefly contemplated returning to the terraces where Arthur was no doubt leaning against the banister looking for his prince and princess but finally resolved to walk more. Although she had not told Connington, she too was curious as to what had happened to Rhaegar and Elia.

Luckily, she knew her friend better than Connington did, and immediately headed toward the orange tree groves. Even as a child, Elia always stole away to the shade of their branches when she wanted privacy from the hustle and bustle of the Water Gardens or when she wanted to hide during some game or another. This time, however, Elia had concealed herself well. Ashara had almost resolved to head back toward the terraces when she heard a small chuckle echoing through the leaves of the trees.

Following the faint sound, she saw two figures standing beneath a high branch that arched over both of their heads, although the man was tall enough that he could have easily grabbed the oranges that hung from it. Ashara crouched behind a nearby tree and trusted the descending darkness and the surrounding hedges to protect her.

She could not see the man and woman's faces, for their bodies were turned away from her, but Ashara watched as the woman jumped repeatedly, her hands barely missing the fruit. She laughed and gestured above her head before moving to turn away from the tree. The man hesitated but then quickly grabbed her around the waist and hoisted her up so that her dark hair bobbed amongst the branches. The woman laughed again and severed an orange from the tree limbs. The man let her down gently, but he kept his hands on her elbows as she tore the fruit's skin from its flesh to reveal the scarlet beads that Ashara knew lay within.

They had turned so that Ashara now could see an outline of their features against the dying sunlight. The woman placed a slice in her mouth, closing her eyes as she savored the sweet citrus. She offered a slice to the man, but he shook his head. She shrugged and placed another piece in her mouth. When she blissfully closed her eyes once more, there was a moment of absolute stillness.

Then, a decision was made, and in a moment's breath, the man bent down and placed his mouth over the woman's.

The orange fell from the her grasp with a soft thud.

Ashara gripped the tree trunk tightly as he drew away slowly. For a moment, the two figures simple looked at one another. Then, the woman stepped from his grasp, curtseyed, and walked away. The trail of her gown brushed the abandoned fruit, but either she did not notice or she did not care.

The man stared at the empty space before, a space that moments ago contained a woman whom he had held within his grasp. He opened and closed his hands before resting them by his sides. His shoulders sagged, as if he was tired or perhaps simply frustrated. Then, he bent down slowly to pick up the blood orange, and as he straightened, he looked at Ashara.

He had known. He had probably known all along.

But she did not move. She did not step from behind her wooden shield to face him boldly, but simply continued to look into his indigo gaze.

Then, he nodded his head and walked away from the tree, back onto the pink marble path, and back the way he had come.

Ashara stood with her hand still resting on the tree trunk. Her brow was furrowed, and her mind was turbulent. She did not see the day descend into night until she felt a strong hand grip her shoulder.

Arthur. He looked at her with sad, solemn eyes. They were not purple like hers; they were a bright blue. Elia loved blue. Ashara wondered at what he had seen. How much he had learned and how much he had already known and how much he had accepted and how much he still had to swallow. He and Elia had been inseparable while their group had meandered through the city, just as they been before he had left to join the Kingsguard. But, now, the walls of their fate had once more closed them off from one another, and the realization that Elia belonged to another man had hit him.

Ashara rested her head on her brother's shoulder. His armor was cool against her cheek.

"How do you feel?" she asked softly. She could feel the answer in his hung shoulders and in his tired arms, but she wanted to know if he had the strength to say it.

"Hurt. And sad. Angry, too, I suppose."

"At who?"

"Everyone. No one. Myself, mostly. He didn't know. He doesn't know. In any case, if it wasn't him, it would be another man. He _is_ a good person, but he is an idiot. Or maybe that's me. After all, I'm the one pining like a lovestruck squire, aren't I? Wouldn't Lewyn have a laugh at all of this. He still doesn't forgive me, you know. I don't blame him. But it still hurts. I'm a bloody knight, Ashara. They call me the best swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms. And I'm still too far away. I'll always be too far away."

He let out a choked laugh. Stars spilled onto his cheeks and dotted the faint line of ashy hair along his jaw. His eyes were so blue. Elia had loved blue. Did she still? Ashara did not know, but hearing his words, she hoped she did and always would. Arthur deserved that, at least. To know that he had her heart even if he could never get it.

Ashara broke away from his embrace and smoothed down his pale hair carefully.

"A man of many words, aren't you, Ser Arthur?"

He shook his head and tilted his head upwards, searching in the distant, blinking diamonds above. They wouldn't answer; Ashara knew that very well.

"No. Not when it mattered."

 _Yes_ , Ashara thought sadly. _The words that matter always seemed to come too late._

* * *

 **2/19/18:**

 **Hello, all. Still not a new chapter, just an update. I'm trying to flesh out the Arthur storyline a little bit, since it will be important later. Thanks for continuing to read!**


	7. A Secret No More

**No copyright infringement intended. All recognizable characters, places, events, etc. belong to George R. R. Martin.**

* * *

It was safe to say that the Prince's Rhaegar's departure left Elia with a bevy of mixed feelings.

She was certainly happy to see the last of Jon Connington. The man had been a pain in the ass since the Water Gardens, and while Elia sympathized with his predicament, that pity had quickly evaporated into barely checked irritation. The man had abandoned Ashara to go look for his prince and had summarily gotten himself well and lost. Oberyn had to be sent to find him, and the Northerner had returned with fire practically spurting out of the many orifices of his body. His sudden fascination with anything Dornish had disappeared with his humor, and he had spent the remainder of his stay sulking by Rhaegar's side, refusing to acknowledge anyone else.

Connington was a child, Elia thought sourly. Brave and loyal he may be, but when smacked with anything not in line with his desires, he turned as petulant as Doran's daughter, Arianne. The toddler was a lovely child, and Elia was a proud aunt, but the fact that Connington, a grown man and a knight to boot, could be compared to a three-year old in the midst of her tantrums was not favorable to his reputation.

But as she watched the King's Landing retinue ride away in a billow of dust and black-red banners, Elia agreed that to judge the prince by his company would not do. She stood by her opinion that Targaryens could not be trusted; the seed of doubt had been laid in her long ago, and she was too wary a person to ever make peace with the abounding rumors.

Bt she resolved that alone, without regard to his lineage, Rhaegar was a respectful and kind man. He had quietly made clear that the marriage would proceed with or without her approval, but Elia had returned from Lannisport with that knowledge. However, Rhaegar had realized that a marriage to her did not guarantee him her obedience, and he did not ask that of her. He saw her thirst for independence, something she had been raised to demand, and he accepted that she was forced into this out of obligation and duty, not choice. He did not express love, and as far as Elia could tell, he did not ask it of her.

For all these things, she was grateful, and as long as he did not succumb to the Targaryen madness, and maybe even if he did, Elia felt that this was a man whom she could grow to be fond of. Perhaps she could never love him as a wife should love her husband, but sometimes friendship was more precious than lust.

Nevertheless, she could not help but see a glimpse of what Cersei and Connington saw in Rhaegar. There was a quiet, seductive allure about him. He was a mysterious man, and what woman- or man, for that matter- could resist mystery? He held his secrets close to him, and his sadness was his and his alone; he did not ask anyone else to share his burden. When she had seen him at Lannisport, Elia had supposed that his melancholy was because of the court turmoil, but upon closer inspection, she saw that the source of despair ran deeper. At the root of it all, Rhaegar was a sad man. But he carried that sadness with authority and grace and that had earned him her respect.

But that kiss...that had earned his something more: her curiosity.

The attraction came from the surprise. It had been unexpected and because of that, it was made all the more memorable. She had been kissed before, yes. By Arthur, her love. By Oberyn and Doran, her brothers. By Ashara, her friend. But this had been different. This was from a man from whom she did not expect anything more than a romp for the sake of a child.

And yet...

There had been something intoxicating in the slant of his chapped lips against her own, in the taste of Dornish spice on his skin, in the smell of smoke and ash and metal emanating from his body. It had lasted a second, maybe two, but it had been enough. The radiating heat from the fingertips that pressed into her skin had chilled her and warmed her and shocked her all at the same time. It was that shock that drove her away from their joined mouths- not the fear of being seen, but the shock that came with the lightning-fast feeling of falling, falling, falling into those lovely blue-violet eyes…

Perhaps that was one more thing Elia had to fear from Rhaegar Targaryen: that if she fell, she would not rise again.

* * *

The year ended with the Seven Kingdoms letting their hopes die with their breath and drawing them up again in preparation for a new year.

In King's Landing, the arrival of Cersei to court upset all the balances of power. The cub had turned into a lioness, and she shook the city with her roar. The court ladies whispered that even though Lady Cersei was a woman, she played the intrigues like a man in a tavern card game: with a bright smile and a hidden dagger. It was a shame, they whispered to one another and always out of her earshot, that her golden twin had been sent to squire at Crakehall, for he was sweet enough to balance the sourness of his sister.

In Dorne, Elia, Oberyn, and Doran saw their once indomitable mother fall prey frequent bouts of weakness that left her imprisoned in her room for days on end. Accustomed to Elia's condition, they would not have been alarmed had it not been for the blood that splattered from her mouth onto the cushions and silks of the divan. She was a strong woman, Lady Aida, and she was an even stronger ruler, but not even she could fight her own body for long.

And so, understandably, the ailing princess was eager to announce Prince Rhaegar's betrothal to her daughter, if only so that she may see the outrage on the old lion's face before she closed her eyes. As for the hardships that Elia may face at her new home- Princess Aida prayed she would be long dead in the ground before she had to witness such a thing.

Luckily for her, the princess' desire came to fruition quickly and surely with a letter from the Stormlands inviting the ruling family of Dorne to spectate at a tourney at Storm's End.

* * *

In the Stormlands, the somber events of the past year were quickly erased from memory with the ascension of the bombastic Robert Baratheon, son of the late Steffon Baratheon and his late wife, Cassana Estermont. The new Lord of Storm's End was a tall, handsome man with a voice that carried through the castle walls and into the streets to the nearest brothel or to the training yard, whichever yielded his fancy first.

But being the new Lord of the land did not prevent him from celebrating his new position as he did all of his other victories: with wine, whores, and more battles. And so came to be the tourney at Storm's End.

The Baratheon lord invited all of the nobles in the Seven Kingdoms, of course, but he cared more about the revelry than the splendor, and in the end, it was a fantastic show of battle prowess but not much else. Many of the attendees were forced to seek shelter in the shabby traveler's inns on the vestiges of the city rather than be granted rooms in the castle or in the nicer taverns close to Storm's End. While the womenfolk complained, most of the men remained quiet. Whatever the lodging conditions, Lord Baratheon could not be criticized on the account of pleasure or alcohol or fighting, for all were capital and plentiful.

Even Oberyn could not find fault with the tourney. Last Elia saw him, he was having his armor fitted in preparation for a joust, or at least trying to. He was being continually distracted by a maid with shining black hair who kept passing by his tent, often peeking into the open flap coquettishly before popping back out. Finally, Elia had grown tired of her giggles and his sly winks and left the tent with a huff.

 _Men_ , she thought irritably as she walked towards the stands, hoping to find Ashara waiting there for her so that she may place a few early wagers. As with Lannisport, her friend had made herself scarce upon the party's arrival. Elia knew there was a man- there could be no other reason for the girl's convenient disappearances- and that he was a foreigner, but whenever she attempted to ease Ashara into the vague topic of the opposite sex, the girl bolted from the conversation faster than a sand steed. Unless, of course, the men had any relation to Elia, in which case Ashara was practically a fountain of conversation.

But in her search for a friendly face, it was not Ashara that Elia finally found, but the visage of a golden-haired, cheeky-grinned Jaime Lannister.

"Elia!" the boy exclaimed, standing at outside the golden Lannister tent with a cocky stance. He was dressed in green robes that made him look much older than his age. Certainly, he flirted like an older man, pressing himself close into her embrace when she approached.

Elia laughed at his pointed lack of formality and returned the attitude with gusto by embracing him as tightly as he did her.

"Jaime! How are you? I must offer my congratulations; I heard you won your first tourney melee not too long ago."

"Quite well, thank you for asking. Yes, it was fun. Father was very proud. Of course, he didn't tell me that, but I like to pretend."

"You have to be careful, Jaime, or the King might appoint you to his service. He could use a sword like yours," she jested.

Jaime laughed, his white teeth on full display, and posed as if he was preparing for an attack.

"Do you think I would be able to hold off his enemies, my lady?"

Elia laughed at his antics, and replied, "Why, yes, Ser Jaime, I do believe you could. But only if the attacker was blind and one-handed."

They walked toward the stands together, and Elia marveled at growth she saw in him, a boy of almost thirteen. Last she had seen him, it was at Lannisport, and he was a good head shorter, but now, he was past her height by half a hand and bulkier as well. She remembered that her mother once wanted to betroth her to Jaime, but the thought repulsed her. The boy was too young, and in any case, he felt more like a friend, even a brother, than a viable marriage prospect.

"And how is your sister finding King's Landing?"

Jaime's cheer dimmed perceptibly, and he replied with a steely bite, "I believe she rather loves it there. Cersei adores finery and gossip and all that. Yes, I would say it suits her just fine."

Elia nodded, but sensing his frustraion, said quietly, "You are not pleased?"

Jaime let out an angry breath.

"No, I am not. Father wants her in King's Landing so that she may catch the prince's eye. Or at least, some lord's."

Elia nodded again. The prince. _Her_ prince. Well, not hers exactly, but he was her future husband. It seemed that the Lannisters did not not give up the chase quite so easily.

"And your sister? What does she have to say about your father's plans?"

"She would say that it is none of your business, Princess Elia," interjected a cool voice.

Elia and Jaime turned abruptly to find the topic of their conversation standing behind them, looking resplendent in a sultry red gown. Like her brother, she had grown, but her growth was into that of a woman- all curves and silk. She was gazing coolly at Elia, and for a moment, the older woman felt cowed, but she quickly straightened her back and stared back, remembering who she was and whom she was addressing.

"Nonsense, Cersei. It's not as if we were discussing anything that wasn't common knowledge," Jaime scoffed, quickly becoming the new object of his sister's derision.

Sensing that the source of the twins' argument ran deeper than being caught exchanging trivial gossip, Elia excused herself under the pretense of finding her family in the stands. It was cowardice, but it was better than being caught up in the Lannister family feud.

"What say you to Lord Robert winning the entire tourney?"

Elia pondered the question, weighing the chances in her head. Robert Baratheon was undoubtedly a superb warrior, but she had noticed he seemed rather tipsy earlier that day, staggering about his tent with a goblet of wine in one hand and a woman's dress in the other.

She opened her mouth to reply, but seeing her friend's focus shift to something behind her, Elia turned around. To her surprise, a sullen Jon Connington stood behind them, arms crossed and dressed in court livery. He was not jousting, then.

"Ser Connington!" Elia exclaimed, rising to meet him. "To what do I owe the honor?"

Connington grunted a greeting and held out his hand.

"Prince Rhaegar requests that you grace him with your favor before he rides."

The sarcasm in his tone was not lost on her, but Elia nevertheless bowed her head graciously and pulled an orange ribbon from her hair.

When the man left, Elia plopped down and rubbed her nose tiredly.

"I do believe the prince kill me."

"What do you mean?" asked Ashara.

"If anyone sees the ribbon, well, he's practically put a target on my back, hasn't he? Cersei Lannister simply needs a bow and arrow now."

Ashara laughed.

"No, I believe she would have to kill the prince first. He wouldn't let any harm come to his bride-to-be, now would he?"

Elia shook her head. Suddenly, the weight of everything struck her again, and she simply wanted to go back to Dorne, to the Water Gardens, to her _home_. Curse the prince and his kindness and his favors and his kisses.

"No, I suppose he would not."

* * *

Rhaegar felt the horse sway from side to side and he pressed a gloved hand to its flank to reassure the steed. Meraxes had been his mount since he was a boy. Jon had mocked him for naming a stallion for a female dragon, but Meraxes had been the steed of Rhaenys, sister-wife of Aegon the Conqueror, and his own namesake. Names held power, and that name reassured him like no other.

Rhaegar heard the crowd cheer wildly for him as he took his lance from the squire. They always cheered for him, but Rhaegar did not understand why. He was a good jouster; he knew that. He had defeated both Oberyn and Arthur that day, although both victories were more due to luck than skill. Afterwards, Arthur had accepted his hand with a laugh, but Oberyn had gotten up from the sand without even a glance before he stormed away angrily. Even though both men had been favorites of the spectators, the support the crowd raised for them could not hold a candle to how they had screamed when he emerged victorious.

Yes, they loved him. But they did not even know him.

He saw Ser Barristan steady his own steed across the stretch of sand, and Rhaegar took in a slight breath. Jousting always made him nervous; it was unneeded violence that often left young men hopelessly injured, if not dead. Rhaegar was not a warrior, not really. He was a good one, certainly, but he took no pleasure in it. Like so many other things, he fought out of duty. He jousted out of duty. And glancing at the stands, he reminded himself that he also wed out of duty. Therefore, he would survive this out of duty as well.

The horn sounded, and Rhaegar kicked Meraxes into a gallop. He pointed his heavy lance, aimed, and felt Ser Barristan's weapon slam into his own. The shock of the force twisted his hand, fed into his arm, spread across his body, knocked him off of Meraxes, and sent him sprawling into the sand. Slowly, he staggered upright, his head ringing but his life thankfully very much intact. However, his hand tingled painfully inside his glove, and Rhaegar dreaded to see what it looked like. He slowly peeled the gauntlet off to see that the skin was swollen and pink.

 _Sprained_ , he thought grimly. _The ladies will miss their chief harpist tonight_.

Meraxes scampered about him nervously, but Ser Barristan, having jumped down from his own steed, held the horse's reins to keep him from bolting. Rhaegar smiled at the knight's proffered hand and accepted it gratefully with his uninjured limb.

He raised his other hand to acknowledge the cheers the crowd raised for him. He saw Elia in the stands, and he smiled gently at her. However, the smile slowly withered from his face as he took in the pallor of her face and saw the bright orange ribbon fluttering from his raised wrist.

 _Damn_.

It was when the glimmering piece of fabric caught the crowd's eye that the cheers turned to exclamations and the exclamations slowly died to silence before the silence drowned under the whispers.

He could practically taste their thoughts on his lips.

" _The prince has a woman…"_

" _He has…"_

* * *

The tourney at Storm's End finished drunkenly. No one seemed to realize that it had ended, for even a week after the final feast, foreigners still staggered around the town like they expected the next joust to take place any minute.

It was not a particularly memorable event: a tournament at Storm's End, one of many that had taken place and would take place again.

Nevertheless, it would remain the topic of conversation for at least another month or two, for a very startling announcement had been made on the final night.

Taking the dias in the Great Hall of the castle, Rhaegar Targaryen had stood tall and proud and announced that in the place of his father, Aerys II Targaryen, he was to announce his betrothal as Prince of Dragonstone and Crown Prince to the Iron Throne to the Princess Elia Nymeros Martell of Dorne.

They would be wed, he said, by the next year.

And so, that was how Westeros came to meet its new princess, the sun who would marry the dragon.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading, everyone! Not the best chapter, I know, but I'm heading for vacation and rushed writing this. Yes, yes, you can all yell, "shame" at me now for my excellent procrastination. In any case, the vacation extends into next week, so I might not be able to update next week. If I do, it will be a late update on Saturday. But thanks for reading all the same, and please comment/favorite/follow and I'll see you for the next chapter! Expect some wedding bells!**


	8. Ring the Bells

**No copyright infringement is intended. All recognizable names and plot characteristics belong to George R. R. Martin.**

* * *

As the year died, so did Princess Aida of Dorne.

Elia wished her mother had passed in a flash- a miraculous collapse or a fateful accident. But no, the princess took her sweet time and died slowly as the year's dusk approached. Death was cruel, of course, but it was particularly malicious in this case for the woman who was placed in the coffin and sunk beneath the waves of the Summer Sea was not the proud matriarch of House Martell nor the shrewd ruler of Dorne. By the very end, she had spit up more blood than she had retained in her body. She had become skeletal and gaunt, staring out from her window for days on end without speaking. Food had become an afterthought, and her family- the one she had lived to safeguard- became strangers in her mind. By the time life left Aida's body, the Martells mourned the death of her spirit more than anything else.

Elia did not cry as the coffin sunk and the warm, salt winds whipped her hair and body. She was lost in the memories of hands stroking her hair as she coiled in pain, in the scent of cardamom and allspice and jasmine, and in the laughing black eyes that stormed and flamed all at once. She was too happy to be sad. Sad was for later, when the realization that those hands and that scent and those eyes would only live on in her mind finally sunk in.

* * *

The smallfolk of Dorne met the news of their regent's death with solemn acceptance. This was not due to lack of love or respect for the late princess but because they had forgotten she- and not Prince Doran- was their ruler.

The transfer of power from mother to son had been gradual, but it had been deliberate and done in such a fashion that Doran had known rule long before he had been granted the title, and no one questioned his authority.

His father, Prince Consort Ryad, had already been a rare presence at court, but that too faded with his wife's death. He had appeared by Princess Aida's side, then by Prince Doran's, but the day after his wife's death, he no longer came to the throne room unless summoned expressly.

It was not out of bitterness but because Ryad was not a man built for rule, and he knew that very well. More importantly, he accepted his limitations.

In all honesty, he could rule passably, but he learned very early in his marriage that his wife did it so much better, and he was a peace-loving man with enough common sense to realize that if he wanted to keep his wife happy, he would have to bend his knee to her. It was something he held no qualms about and did quite happily every day until she died; he made the obligatory visits to the throne room, offered the occasional opinion, and then went back to his gardens.

For that was where his true passion lay- nature. His wife had often said he should have been born a Tyrell, and he had rejoined that if he had, she would probably have been choked by poisoned roses within the first months of their union.

He missed his wife. Doran reminded her of him a bit, but only in his features. He would like to say that Oberyn displayed Aida's fierce pride and Elia her strength, but others had told him that; he had never spent enough time with them to learn for himself.

He loved them all equally- Doran, Elia, Oberyn- but so many years separated Doran from the others that by the time the last two had been born, Ryad found himself to be an old man incapable of playing with and humoring his children as he had been able to do with his oldest.

Instead, he watched them from afar. He had sighed as Oberyn mocked poor Baelor Hightower and drove away the one suitor of Elia's he had liked. He had smiled when Aida complained of Oberyn's constant whoring and the bastards (the ones they knew of, at least) that were borne from those trysts.

And he had looked on in consternation and fear when the Targaryen boy visited Dorne and claimed his daughter as his betrothed at Storm's End.

He loved them from a distance, and he knew that they respected him at the very least out of the obligation that he was their father. Whether they loved him- that he did not know.

Therefore, he was surprised when his daughter came to him, a month after her mother had been laid to rest, in the Sunspear gardens.

He made to rise from his position amongst the dirt, but she knelt beside him. That, too, surprised him; Elia did not scorn roughness, but she did not seek it out willingly.

"What plant is this? I have never seen their like in Dorne," she asked, touching the dark red petals of the flowers lying beside them.

"It is called dragon's breath. They grow it in the godswood of the Red Keep," he replied. He dug a small hole into the soil and placed the plant into it, patted the dirt beside it to form a smooth plane.

"I will look for them when I'm there," she replied, rocking back onto her heels.

Ryad stood up slowly. His knees were not as forgiving at this age as they had been twenty years ago.

"Why have you come, child?" he said, not unkindly as his daughter followed him from the flower beds, but Elia was her mother's daughter; she did nothing without a purpose.

"I do not know."

"I cannot halt this marriage, as much as I may wish to."

"Then why did you let it happen at all, Father?"

"You have met your mother, yes? I could sooner halt the sun than stand in her way. Now, why have you come?"

"I have not been here in a long while. I suppose I wanted to see it before I go."

"And your dear father as well?"

Elia stiffened beside him. He stopped and turned to face her. The girl had always been frail, but in the past few months, her body seemed to feed on itself more than anything else. The veins jumped out from the fine veneer of her skin. It worried Ryad; Elia was to be the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, the mother to whatever heirs the gods would see fit to bless her with- how could she be any of these things if she could barely stand upright?

"I am sorry I have not-"

"I understand, child. I am sorry as well. What is it that they say? Absence makes the heart grow fond? I'm sure you mother would have some words to say about that."

Elia twiddled with her dress before replying quietly, "Mother would say absence gives you peace of mind."

Ryad laughed.

"I miss your mother. She was a wit."

Elia nodded, her head still bowed.

Ryad had rarely seen his daughter cry. He knew that she did in the privacy of her rooms, but rarely did Elia let her tears show in public, much less in front of others. She was like him in that sense; he did not like to throw his emotions to the wind like so many of his countrymen. But seeing the silver drops slip down her face, one by one, awakened a sadness in him he had suppressed so long that he thought he had forgotten the sensation. It was the helplessness of seeing one's child step into doom and having little power to stop the descent. And it crushed him.

He stepped forward and took the thin figure into his arms.

"I will miss you, child."

"Will you visit me?"

For a moment, Ryad forgot that his daughter would soon become a wife. Right now, she was simply the child he had seen race so often through Sunspear, hair flying and skinny arms pumping with determination. And he hated to break her hope.

"I think not. The king does not like Dornish men in the capital."

"May I visit you?"

"I would like that, yes. But the king may not. Elia, you must be careful. King's Landing is not home. In the Red Keep, you will belong to the Targaryens. Your husband's family."

Elia snapped her head back and glared fiercely, tears translucent against her copper skin.

"I am a Martell. I will always be a Martell."

"I am not asking you to forget who you are, Elia. I am asking you to remember who you will be among. I do not want anything to happen to you.

"You are my daughter. The child who we thought we could never have, and when the gods finally gave you to us, we almost lost you again. Elia, giving you away saddens me more than you will ever understand. Doran is sensible, and Oberyn is wild, but you are the good in both of them. When I hand you to the Targaryens, I do so with the knowledge that I will be handing them the sun of Dorne. And she will never return to us again."

Elia looked him solemnly. She smiled, carefully.

"May I help you plant the flowers?"

"Yes, child. I would love nothing more."

* * *

When the year turned anew, the members of all the Great Houses traveled in droves to King's Landing. The Starks descended from Winterfell, the Tullys from Riverrun, the Tyrells from Highgarden- all came to the capital for the wedding of Prince Rhaegar and Elia Martell.

For many, the announcement was too unanticipated for suspicion not to rise. Why would the king chose a girl from a family known for their obstinacy? From a kingdom that was forged in defiance? The Targaryens had not married into the Martells for generations, so why begin at a time when there were so many other viable options?

Some said that it was because the king wanted to spite Tywin Lannister, whose hatred for the Dornish was well-known to all and who still smarted from the refusal of his daughter's hand for the prince. Letters that flew from the capital spoke of the fractured relationship between the Hand and the monarch.

They said Aerys felt threatened by the lion, who had so much gold he could buy all of the Unsullied in Astapor and still have money left to fill the Great Sept of Baelor. They said the king thought Tywin had ordered the death of Lord Steffon and would soon murder him as well, for while Aerys held the throne, no one truly questioned that Tywin was the true ruler.

The Lord of Casterly Rock managed all affairs of state with an iron fist whilst the King of the brooded and played with fire on his false throne.

But others thought along a different vein.

Aerys had turned so mad, they said, that he thought Prince Rhaegar was plotting to take the throne and had arranged a marriage to a weakling so that he would not have heirs, and the throne could pass to Viserys.

They said that all of these lies and more were whispered into Aerys' ear by The Spider, a eunuch named Varys who hailed from Lys. He was a man whose trade was secrets, and there was not a murder, a tryst, not even a whisper that he did not know about. No one at court liked the man, but no one in court wanted Varys as an enemy, and so The Spider continued to spin his web around the Mad King.

However, this atmosphere of political tension and turmoil evaporated, at least momentarily, when the day of the wedding arrived at King's Landing. The streets of Flea Bottom had not quite so much waste in them as usual, and garlands of flowers and banners were hung everywhere. The days preceding had been filled with feasting and dancing, and the lights of the city had never dimmed, for everyone was restive with anticipation.

That same anticipation hung in Elia's stomach as she ascended the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor, her hand clenched in her father's. Behind her, thousands of smallfolk screamed. Their roars had begun when she had stepped from the palanquin and waved to them, but the noise had compounded with every step she took.

Elia had never been a religious person. She visited the sept often enough to know the customs, but when it came time to pray, she always seemed lost for words, for all of the prayers she had whispered as a child for better health had never been answered. She believed in the gods, but she did not believe that they cared.

Nevertheless, she understood why the Great Sept was called such. The sheer magnitude of the building and the opulence of its structure inspired awe, if not a desire to prostrate before the gods that it venerated.

Pausing before the doors, Elia turned to face her father. He looked at her calmly, but the past few weeks spent in his company had taught her to search for his feelings beneath his expression. Elia had never really known her father until she was about to lose him, and she truly regretted that, as did he.

"Well, here we are, Father. I shall pass through those doors and become a dragon."

Ryad smiled softly, bent forward and kissed her brow.

"I do not care who you marry, Elia. You shall always be my daughter before all else."

"Mother would be proud."

Ryad took his daughter's hands in his own. They were clammy and cold, but Elia looked beautiful. Her health had returned with surprising vigor in the past month. Her cheeks were suffused with a rosy blush that he had rarely seen in her, and her frame had filled out to a healthy degree once more. His daughter was a golden bride, and he regretted that his wife could not see her daughter at the epoch of her beauty.

"She would be more than proud, Elia. She would be happy. Are you ready, child?"

Elia took a deep breath, nodded, and took her first step through the open doors.

* * *

When the future Princess Consort of Dragonstone stepped through the doors of the Great Sept, many thoughts ran through the minds of those who saw her.

Noblewomen who had never met her before or knew her only from sight were disappointed, for while she was thin, she was not the weakling they had come to expect, whom they had anticipated mocking. She walked with grace by her father's side, with calm, sure steps and her head held high towards the septon and the prince. She did not look like a princess- she looked like a Queen.

Many of the men in the room looked on appreciatively, for the bride's dress was of Dornish fashion. There was no heavy embroidery or restricting corset- only ivory silk that draped and whispered along luscious coppery skin that peeked from beneath the maiden's cloak. More than one thought excitedly of the following afternoon to the bedding ceremony, for while they may not be able to do the deed, they could at least glimpse the goods.

However, while some thought of what they would like to do to the bride, others wished.

 _I hope she keels over during the feast and dies_ , yearned Cersei Lannister.

 _If only I could be Rhaegar, and Cersei my bride,_ thought her twin.

 _I hope this marriage will bring peace_ , brooded Doran Martell.

 _If only I could kill that dragon bastard; she wouldn't be here_ , cursed Oberyn Martell.

 _When I take the grey sigil, I want to be as beautiful as Elia_ , dreamt Ashara Dayne.

And from the corner of the Great Sept, out of sight, someone else wished as well.

 _Please forgive me; I could not stop him_ , prayed a man with violet eyes and a cursed white cloak.

* * *

Rhaegar was not a superstitious man. But when he snuck into his bride's chambers the night before their wedding, he could not help but apprehension, for her remembered the old rhyme about husbands and wives who saw each other before soon they were wed.

" _Happiness, they will never find_

 _Only with death shall their fates be lined"_

Evidently, Elia remembered this dictum as well, for when she closed the door to her room and turned to see Rhaegar on her bed, she immediately let out a soft scream and screwed her eyes closed.

"Rhaegar! What the hell are you doing here? I cannot see you before the wedding! It's bad luck!"

Rhaegar walked over and slowly pulled her hands from her face.

"I believe you already have, my bride-to-be, so you might as well keep your eyes open. It can hardly get worse."

Elia huffed, but she complied. Rhaegar had not seen her when she came into the city a week ago; his mother would not let him. It was said that the longer the bride and groom did not see each other before the vows were spoken, the happier their marriage would be.

But happiness and old wives' tales be damned, Rhaegar had to see his future wife at least once before their were bound together for life. He didn't know why; perhaps he needed to be sure that Elia would not run away in the night, that his actions in Dorne and then at Storm's End had not destroyed whatever regard she may have held for him.

He had convinced Arthur to help him, as much as the man had resisted.

"Rhaegar, this is foolishness! You know what they say-"

"You're a Dornishman, Arthur. Please don't tell me you believe in such grovel," Rhaegar had chided as he placed Arthur's helmet over his head.

"You should not take the chance, Rhaegar. You would not be bringing bad omens upon yourself, but upon El- Princess Elia as well."

But Rhaegar had shook his head, gulped down a glass of strong Dornish wine, squashed the doubt in his mind as he swept the white cloak around his shoulders, and strode out into the corridor to his betrothed's chambers.

He took in her appearance as he stared at her in her chambers; she certainly looked better than at Dorne or at Storm's End. Her frame had become curvier, her face more golden with health.

 _Yes, she will be the mother of my dragons._

"Well, why are you here, Rhaegar?"

Elia crossed her arms and looked at him expectedly. Rhaegar suddenly felt reckless, felt the need to take a risk. The same heady rush of adrenaline that had filled him in the Water Gardens filled him now, and he took the bait.

"To hear you call me by name, my lady. I suppose we are close enough for such liberties?" he said, placing his hands on her hips. They were soft and warm through her dress.

"I think such liberties can wait another day, _Your Grace_ ," she whispered into his ear as she slipped from his grasp and walked to her bed.

"Why are you here?"

Rhaegar sighed and followed her steps. Against the background of the expansive bed, Elia looked small. He knelt before her and took her hands in his own.

"Tomorrow we will be married.'

"Yes."

"We will be husband and wife."

"Yes."

He searched her brown orbs. They were open and honest.

"I know this marriage was not by your choice. In many ways, I forced you into this, and I am sorry for that. I cannot promise to love you will all of my being, and nor I do not expect you to love me unequivocally. We do not know each other enough for that. But I promise, Elia, to be a good husband. I promise to care for you, to never hurt you, to never lie to you."

He was lying with every breath, but he needed for her to believe him.

* * *

Elia looked at the man kneeling before her for a long while. It was true, this marriage had not been her choice, but she appreciated his honesty. He had been kind at Lannisport, at Dorne. He was a good man, the prince. _Her_ prince, now.

He _was_ a good man, she told herself, because she wanted it to be true. Desperately, she wanted it to be true.

So she swallowed the little kernel of doubt, leaned forward, and took- not placed, not pressed, but _took_ \- his lips into her own.

* * *

But it was not that kiss that Rhaegar had remembered when he saw Elia walk towards him, glowing in an ivory sheath as her hand interlaced with her father's.

It was not that kiss that he relived as the septon began stating the vows, prayers, the songs.

It was not that kiss that he longed for when the maiden cloak in Martell colors fell from her body and his fingers brushed her naked shoulders as he placed red and black upon them.

It was not that kiss that he anticipated as he heard the words, "With this kiss I pledge my love" be uttered by his tongue and hers.

No, it was a kiss of poisoned promises, of forbidden fruit, and broken hearts that he placed upon Elia Martell's lips, a kiss that made his blood sing and his heart weep.

" _One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever."_

She felt soft lips tenderly touch her own and before his mouth left hers, felt his lips whisper her name.

And then, Elia Martell looked into those blue-violet eyes and with a gentle push, let her heart _fall_.

* * *

 **Hello everyone! Sorry for the wait, but here we are again, and well, we just saw a wedding happen. You all know what comes next, and no, I haven't decided how** ** _in-depth_** **it will get, but, well, we'll see. Thanks for reading, and please review/favorite/follow, and I'll see you next week!**


	9. A Night of Blood and Wine

**No copyright infringement is intended. All recognizable names and plot characteristics belong to George R. R. Martin.**

* * *

To say that King's Landing celebrated the wedding would be an understatement. If there any more Dornish wine were to be brought into the city, an entire quarter of it would've sunk into the depths of Blackwater Bay. From the beginning of the ceremony till a week after its completion, the festivities continued without any sign of abating because to the people of Westeros and especially to the people of King's Landing, a wedding was never just a wedding.

Yes, of course, the smallfolk were relieved that the new princess was not immediately related to their prince (even if she was _Dornish_ ), but a royal wedding was first and foremost an excuse to lap up the wine the flowed from the tables of the lords and ladies in the Red Keep and trickled through to the small insignificant specks of life that populated the slums of the capital. For urchins who usually starved, a wedding was a steady source of saleable, slightly stolen goods and a dependable way to forget their woes. For the brothel owners, it brought a significant increase in the numbers of rich, inebriated patrons who could and did pay exorbitant amounts of money when pressed _just_ correctly. And for the City Watch, it greatly simplified their duties. After all, it was easier to arrest a drunken criminal than a fast one, so they also profited from the nuptials and subsequent distractions.

The lords and ladies enjoyed the ceremonies, too, of course, but unlike the smallfolk who rarely had the privilege of tasting the sharp tang of a Dornish wine, luxurious weddings were a norm in their world, regardless that few ever took place on the scale of the prince's. Therefore, many members of the nobility saw the ceremony as a chance to scout, to observe. Was this new Targaryen princess a threat? Was she really as weak as she looked, or was it all ruse? Would she bring a child into the marriage, and more importantly, an heir for the kingdom? And if she did not and died, what were the odds of one of their daughters fulfill the vacancy?

Elia was aware of these circling thoughts and more as she sat at her place on the high table.

She felt the embarrassment in the prickly silence that hung between her and Rhaegar when a drunk Robert Baratheon yelled, "I hope she has as good a womb as their mares!" for the whole congregation to hear. She had to glare at Oberyn to prevent him from getting up and strangling the brute as he sank deeper into his cups.

She felt the threat in Olenna Tyrell's gift of miniature rose topiaries when the thorns pressed into her fingertips and pin drops of flood appeared on them. But she still smiled prettily and thanked the old crone and wished with all her heart to see the woman's head on a spike someday.

And Elia felt determination when Tywin Lannister requested her hand because the king commanded, "A dance with my good-daughter, Hand! The Seven Kingdoms haven't seen you with a woman since your good wife died!"

She let Lord Tywin lead her from the table and turn her to face him. The old lion was still handsome despite his age. Beginning to bald, but there was a hard beauty in the stern lines of his face. She saw Jaime in the corners of his mouth, and Cersei in the coldness of his expression, but to her surprise, Elia saw his youngest son, Tyrion, the most. There had been intelligence in the babe's eyes when she had seen him last, all those years ago as he lay in his crib at Casterly Rock, and that contemplative look was mirrored in his father's glance as he assessed her, coldly and assertively.

This was the man who said wild horsemen from the south were not fit for his golden children, the man whom her mother had striven to undermine. Elia would not show her fear to him. No, she would be strong.

She would not bow. She would not bend. And she would not break.

An old Westerosi tune was struck up, and Elia let her body follow the steps her mind already knew.

"I believe I ought to congratulate you on your fine marriage, Princess Elia."

"It is not obligatory, Lord Tywin, but it is much appreciated."

"It is a shame your mother could not be here to witness it. She has long negotiated this union, I am told. Alas, we cannot be victorious in everything. I am afraid that sometimes we must acknowledge defeat, especially to our born superiors."

"I do not believe the sun has many superiors, Lord Tywin. It does not bow to any creature, whether it be in the air or in the sea or on land."

"I've always found it interesting the especial consideration your people give to their women. Makes them very bold."

"Perhaps it is because my people's dynasties were founded by a woman."

"Yes, I am familiar with your history. Many a girl has grown up hearing the tale of Nymeria, of how she was so ferocious she was practically a man. And then they realize that, at the end of it all, a man is born to rule, and a woman is born to be ruled."

"Well, that is why so many Dornish rulers have been women, Lord Tywin. You see, all Dornish babes are born male, but mothers who wish to have a daughter merely whisper the tale of Nymeria into the newborn's ears for a fortnight, and the babes will soon change from a stallion into a mare. Unfortunately, I'm afraid only the physical bits change; the temperament remains entirely like a man's. That way, they can rule perfectly well, sometimes better."

"You mock me, Princess."

"I do, Lord Tywin. It was a lie my mother used to tell me when I asked her why I was born so frail and all the other children were so much stronger. She said that she told me the story of Nymeria too many times, and it zapped the masculinity almost completely out of me. So now, all I'm good for is sitting, dancing, and speaking prettily."

"You have your mother's wit, Princess."

"So I've been told, Lord Tywin."

"But I hope you have not her idiocy."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your late mother believed she could thwart me by marrying her only daughter to the Targaryens. Very well, she did. But in her haste, she forgot that Sunspear is so very far away from the Red Keep, and that a Dornish princess with a reputation for ill health will not be well-received in a capital ruled by Northerners. The vipers here bite, girl."

"Really, Lord Tywin? How unfortunate, for I had come to King's Landing with the sole purpose of making friends."

"King's Landing is not Dorne, and the dragons are not your allies."

"Do you know, Lord Tywin, I guessed they must dislike me very much because the wine they served at the high table was simply awful."

A smirk, here, out of irritation and perhaps the slightest bit of amusement.

"I believe that wine was brought from Casterly Rock."

"Oh, is it? Yes, I believe Lannister wine has a cold, metallic twinge to it- like the side of a gold coin."

"Does gold not please you?"

"No, Lord Tywin; I find that I prefer fire."

The song ended, and Tywin Lannister escorted her back to her husband.

He bowed, kissed her hand, but before he returned to his seat, he looked down at her and muttered:

"Take care how you speak, girl. Wit cannot be lost, but a tongue can."

As Elia stared, dumbfounded, she heard Rhaegar offer his gratitude for entertaining his bride.

"It was my pleasure,Your Grace. A Lannister always pays his debts."

He glanced at her and without bowing, swept away.

* * *

Soon, it came time for that infamous event which the men had anticipated and the women had dreaded.

"Rhaegar! Time to see if you can show your foreign bride what a true dragon looks like, eh?"

It was as if Aerys' words had been a surge of lightning that struck the crowd in the Red Keep. Immediately, an entire mass of virile, drunken men staggered toward Elia, yelling and screaming and jeering. She saw Oberyn rush toward her, Doran not far behind, but both soon disappeared under the tumult.

Hands pulled her from her seat, grabbing at her hair, her arms, her dress. Elia felt her feet leave the floor as the men hoisted her above their heads, and the newly emerged urge to vomit intensified as fingers poked and prodded her. They let her down in the darkened corridor behind the hall. The ceiling was too high to carry her, but they continued to tear away her clothing. The walls spun as Elia tried, all dignity evaporated, to protect her body from their words and their touches. Why weren't they taking her to Rhaegar?

"Let's see if she really rides as fast as a Dornish mare, aye lads?"

"Oh, it's only a grab before he gets you to himself!"

"Just give me a taste of those lips, Princess- and the ones on your face, too."

"Don't be modest, you Southern bitch. I've been waiting for this all day!"

Elia saw blue eyes and then-

"Agh, she's sick! All over my cloak!"

"Get her away, get her away!"

"I don't care, her mouth can still suck my-"

The jeers slowly died as Elia smelled steel and felt cold armor against her skin. Her head spun, but it slowed as she was lowered from the embrace and placed with her feet on the ground.

"Are you alright?"

It was Arthur. Suddenly, Elia was reminded of being in a darkened corridor very much like this one, facing a doorway, and being saved by the same man who stood before her now, worry and distance in his eyes. But that was long ago, years ago. She had been a different woman back then, a woman who was a Martell and not a Targaryen, a woman who was a different kind of princess, the kind that didn't matter in King's Landing. The only thing that remained the same was that she was no freer to love him then than she was now. She could only be grateful.

And so, Elia took the distance that she found in Arthur's eyes and placed it in her heart also.

"Yes. Thank you."

Silence.

"You had better go in. Rhaegar is waiting for you."

She nodded and turned, her head feeling a little fuzzy, her hand on the door handle and then-

Then, she felt armor pressing against her chest and fingers pressing into her face and lips pressing against her mouth and a pressure pressing into her heart.

They broke apart, and she breathed, and then a door was opened, and she was pushed inside and then it was all blackness.

* * *

When the women tossed him into the chamber, Rhaegar had quickly barred the door. The route the men had taken Elia was, of course, longer than the one the women who stripped him had chosen. However, Rhaegar had asked Arthur to look after her, so it was not her safety that Rhaegar was concerned for so much as the crowd outside that awaited her arrival.

Rhaegar wanted Elia's comfort above all else, and he did not know how she would react to him plunging inside of her as a hundred noblemen and women cheered them on from outside. He heard Ser Barristan's voice commanding the women to disperse, and Rhaegar sighed with relief as the noise abated.

And then, he began waiting.

He paced for a bit, wondering where she was. Then he lay on the bed, fingering the rose petals that lay scattered on the ermine covers. Feeling restless and slightly impatient, he began pacing again.

 _Where are they? Has Arthur lost my wife? Has-_

The door opened and a breathless Elia staggered through. She looked somewhere past him and promptly fainted. Rhaegar rushed to her side and shook her awake.

"Elia? Are you alright?"

She rose slowly, nodding her head.

"Yes, I'm fine. The trip here was- it was quite the journey."

"I apologize if the men-"

"No, no. Don't apologize, but I would appreciate it if you showed me the wash basin."

"Yes, it is right behind-"

"Oh, I see it. Thank you."

He saw her disappear behind the screen and heard a few splashes of water before she remerged.

She was flushed. He could see the water droplets that still clung to her face and had seeped through her white shift. There was skin underneath, coppery, golden-

The tension was palpable despite the distance between them- him by the door, her near the table of food- all aphrodisiacs, if he was not mistaken.

Rhaegar walked towards the bed, gestured for her to sit beside him. He had idea earlier in the day, and it pleased him, but he wanted to have her consent before he proceeded.

"Elia, we do not know each other very well. We both know what we must do, but the fact remains that we are strangers. The night...it's long. We have plenty of time for...everything, but before that, what do you think of, well, simply talking?"

She was silent for a long while.

"There is a game that Oberyn and I used to play. A drinking game. We tell each other a story, and the other must guess if it is truth or if it is a lie. Whoever is correct receives a prize, and the other must drink."

"You...drink?"

"Not often. But it is a fun contest for those daring enough to try."

"Are you challenging me, my princess?"

"It depends, my prince. Are you bold enough to accept?"

* * *

"When I was knighted, my father sent three whores to my bedchamber to teach me how to be a true dragon."

"And what happened?"

"I disguised us all, took them to Flea Bottom, and played my harp in the streets while they danced for an entire night."

"And that's all?"

"Yes."

"You've never bedded those women?"

"Never."

"That's a lie."

"Take a drink, Princess."

Elia laughed in disbelief, her dark hair waving wildly as she shook her head at him. They were lying on a soft wolf's pelt on the floor, separated by a bottle of wine, a bowl of peeled blood oranges, and the clothes on their backs. There was no distance, no awkwardness between them now.

Rhaegar did not know how long they had been playing Elia's game, but he could see the full moon shine brightly through the open window. Time seemed inconsequential here, in the bubble of their chambers, where they could play silly games and drink and flirt and seduce one another over shared secrets while the world tumbled over itself around them

He was enjoying himself. His wife, as it turned out, was a master of deception; she knew that if she lowered eyes just so and lilted her voice a notch lower, he would fall for her coal black lies as if they were truths uttered by the septon himself. In the end, Rhaegar found himself drinking copious more amounts of wine than Elia, whose fingers were stained with the blood oranges she had collected as rewards for her husband's ineptitude.

However, despite the nearly depleted bottle of wine set before him, Rhaegar found himself as awake as ever. It could've been the crisp, cool evening air. Or perhaps the pleasant silence of their chambers, broken only by laughter and gulps of wine.

Or maybe, it was everything about the room and the night, and also everything about the woman who lay before him.

Maybe it was the way she laughed, so openly and honestly, with her head thrown back and throat exposed. Or how the kinks and curls of her hair settled in the crook of her elbow, against the sweep of her collarbone, along the swell of her breast. Or maybe it was her; _her_ , as a person, so witty and kind and defiant that it took away his melancholy and made him, for this night at least, utterly content.

"Do you not want your prize, Rhaegar?"

No, he decided, it was her voice. The way it deepened to a hoarse whisper, sultry but frustratingly innocent at the same time. It was the way her tongue rolled the r's, toughened on the hard consonants and melted away on the soft ones. Her Rhoynish accent was so foreign, so beautiful compared to his Northern drawl. _She_ was beautiful, so beautiful, so golden and…

 _This_ was the wine, Rhaegar realized pleasantly. Well, that and lust brought on by a pretty, charming woman's company. But mostly wine.

He lay back on the rug, his head turned towards Elia as she tipped the bowl of oranges towards him.

"I find myself too exhausted, dear wife. It is simply too hard to lift such a delicate orange to my mouth and still find the energy to chew and swallow it."

She fingered an orange and fluttered her eyelashes vacuously.

"Well, if it please my lord, I may be of help with the task of lifting and inserting...the orange slice."

Rhaegar laughed as she dangled the slice over his mouth. He lunged, and as he bit into the fruit, he felt her fingers brush his lips.

The room became electric. They froze there, her fingers caressing his lips, his lips kissing her fingers.

What to do? Should he back away? Or should he-

Slowly, carefully, he grabbed her hand, pressed it to his mouth, and stared into her brown eyes as he licked each of her fingers, tasting the sweet tang of Dornish blood oranges descend across his taste buds.

Silence. And then-

"My turn."

Her voice was hoarse, her eyes glassy and black. He could not speak, so he nodded. He moved to rest on his knees, his hands placed on his thighs. She mirrored him. It had all the semblance of distance, of control.

"That night at the Water Gardens, you kissed me."

"Yes."

"And I was scared. I was scared to be amongst dragons, what it would mean and what it would do to me.

"But I wanted you to kiss me again, there, under the orange trees.

"At the tourney, I was scared again. Not of how others would react but of how if others knew, it was all final. I would be yours.

"But when I arrived at King's Landing, and your mother was so kind, and your brother was so sweet, and you- how you visited my chambers. It was...nice. I didn't expect it to be nice.

"And this, this is nice. It's nice, learning how you love to play the harp and how you don't bed whores you father sends-"

She broke off, and they stared in silence.

"...And it's nice, this feeling that...I want you to kiss me. Again."

She was still, absolutely still, her eyes trained on him, only on him.

"Lies."

"No."

"I drink."

"You drink."

And so he leaned forward, placed his lips on hers, and drank.

* * *

The night continued in that vein.

Legs tangled around sheets, skin slid across skin, fingers delved and reached into flesh, cries were muffled into necks (or sometimes shouted all the louder), gasps were induced, and releases were obtained.

The first time, it was frantic, done with all the guilty eagerness and thrill of seeing the forbidden for the first time. The second time, it was sweet, done with the knowledge that they had the luxury of time and energy and desire. And all the other times- it was an amalgamation of everything: there was desperation and patience, passion and complacency. But always, there was satisfaction.

If she felt pain, he made her ignore it. And if he had any lovers before her, she made him forget them. They flew to the greatest heights and in one fell swoop, pushed each other out of the sky and tumbled together into the sea below. It was murder of the most pleasant kind, of the most sublime kind.

He found he loved her mouth, for it was a devilish little thing that broke his wings and yet let him fly beyond their chambers, beyond King's Landing, and beyond his own body into another world of bliss and pleasure.

And she, in turn, found she loved his fingers, callouses and lengthy limbs and all, for they breached her deepest depths and skimmed her lightest surfaces, unlocking something in her every time they brushed her breast or stomach or neck.

So when they awoke the next morning, having emerged from the womb of the night naked and sated and pleased, they awoke with the strange feeling of acceptance.

Not resignation, but acceptance. Acceptance that they were married, and they had responsibilities, and they had sacrifices, and that this, whatever it was, was nice.

It was nice.

And for now, that was enough.

* * *

 **And we are back after yet another hiatus. I apologize for the wait; finding time to write has been hard recently, but never fear because I will get back to this story. Thank you all for the support in the meantime. Well, it's happened. They've done the dirty, but what happens now? Find out next week, most likely SATURDAY! That's right, new day for updates. Hope you enjoyed, thank you so much for reading and please review, favorite, follow, etc.! I love hearing from you all.**


	10. A Realization

No copyright infringement intended. All recognizable characters, places, events, etc. belong to George R. R. Martin.

* * *

When Elia awoke the morning after their wedding night, she felt a chill across her body. The lingering feeling of an arm around her waist told Elia that the two feet's worth of space between her and Rhaegar had not been there a moment ago. She wondered if he had moved when he sensed her rousing or had shifted of his own accord. He was looking at her, but she hesitated to meet his gaze. It was not out of embarrassment, nor fear. Not exactly. It was more of a trepidation, the knowledge that the moment their gazes met, the unspoken events of last night would no longer remain hidden by the darkness of the night nor by the stupor of alcohol. Nevertheless, she could not hide forever and with a shallow breath, dragged her eyes to lock onto Rhaegar's.

For a moment, they were both suspended in mutual remembrance of the passion, the fervor, the electricity. And, then, came the torrent of implications:

 _Seven help me, we made love last night._

 _Nymeria, we made love last night._

 _Gods, how many times? Two? Three?_

 _We are married. Actually married._

 _She could be carrying my child ri- stop it, Rhaegar. Not now._

 _He is my husband. My_ husband _._

 _She looks pale, too pale. Damn, did I hurt her?_

 _I am lying in bed with my husband, Rhaegar Targaryen, in King's Landing, after a wedding night spent making love._

 _What do I do?_ Should _I do something?_

 _Gods, did I really tell him that I lusted for his fingers? What am I, some blushing virgin from Winterfell?_

 _Why isn't she speaking? Ask her something, you idiot!_

 _Why is he so silent? I should say something, anything._

"How are you-"

"How are you-"

They paused, looked at each other, blushed slightly. Rhaegar gestured with his hand, indicating that she proceed first.

Elia looked down at the space between them, cast her eyes around the dimly lit room. The sun had not risen yet, and the early hour had reduced the din of the city to as close to silence as it could ever get.

"How are you...feeling?"

"Well. Good. Satisfied."

At the last word, Elia met his eyes once more, her eyebrow quirked. It was only when she saw Rhaegar flush and stammer in embarrassment that she laughed aloud, her head thrown back into the cushions at the ridiculousness of it all. Here they were, two grown individuals- husband and wife, no less- fumbling around one another in the early hours of the morning with "How are you's?" after a night of passion and revelation, after glimpsing every naked inch of each other that there was to see. Rhaegar soon joined her, a soft timbre that echoed alongside her own voice.

As the last few giggles left her, Elia stretched her arms languidly, feeling the sweet ache of exhaustion in her limbs. She paid no attention to how the sheet slid down her torso, but she did notice the lingering glance of the man beside her, the slight stiffening of his frame. Some mischievous part of her, the temptress who had emerged last night, told her to take her time in hiking up the sheet, to leave it draping across her frame, neither wholly revealing nor concealing, as she turned to face Rhaegar. He turned in kind, only letting his eyes drop from hers for the briefest of moments.

"And, you, Elia, how do you fare?"

"Well."

"Are you hungry? Thirsty? Shall I fetch something"

"No, thank you. Just tired."

"Oh...not in too much pain, I hope?"

"No, no pain. Just soreness, I suppose."

And, it was true, surprisingly. A small part of Elia had worried last night about how her body would fare come morning, but whatever discomfort she felt now, as she lay beside Rhaegar, could only be attributed to a rambunctious night, nothing more.

"Oh."

"Yes."

Her last word dissipated in the air, and they were left, once more, staring. But, this time, it felt less and less like awkward, rushed glances and more and more like...learning. Drinking each other in, gleaning whatever hidden thoughts they could from one another. Elia looked into those strange, strange eyes. They were so foreign in their color, in their interminable sobriety, some of which lingered even now. Who was the man behind them, she wondered. Would she ever be able to learn? Would he let her? She suspected that, maybe, she would be allowed glimpses, but she strongly doubted she would ever truly understand her husband. And, could she come to love him despite of that? Her mind- experience and common sense- told her that to love blindly, to love with unsure expectations for the future, was dangerous. But, her body- now inked forevermore with his fingers, his lips, his body- told her that it had already begun molding itself to the pleasure of his company. It was between these these poles of reluctance and desire that her heart meandered, unsure of which camp to settle in.

"You have freckles."

Elia blinked out of the quiet reverie. Her freckles? Her _freckles_? Of all things, she did not expect him to comment on her visage.

"Yes, I suppose I have a few."

"Not on your face."

"Oh."

How the tables had turned; Elia almost blushed again but quelled her embarrassment when she saw the unabashed way that Rhaegar transfixed his eyes upon her, head nestled in the cradle of his palm, one elbow propped into the bedspread, and a hand left in the no-man's land between them.

"They have a shape to them- your freckles, that is."

"Yes. Somewhat like a fish, like sigil of House Tully."

"Really? I rather thought it looked like an arrow."

"Well, that is a novel interpretation."

"Have there been many interpretations?"

Elia smiled at his question, the subtlety with which he interposed it into conversation. She did not respond immediately, instead choosing to watch his fingers as they traced circles into the cloth. They were long, strong, and slender. Built to handle, to hold, whether that be an instrument or a sword. But, pretty fingers and clever words were not always enough to wrest answers from an unwilling woman.

"My own. And one other."

Let him guess who it was. She knew he never would, out of respect for her and simply because the correct answer would have never crossed his mind.

The fingers stilled momentarily but resumed their course, a tad slower than before.

"Am I permitted to ask who?"

"Yes, you are."

"But, I will not be permitted an answer."

"You will find, my prince, on the sheets proof of my virtue, if that is what you seek."

Elia knew in the way that he smiled at her, that he would not. He did not care if she was telling the truth or lying through her teeth, for her past was of no consequence to him, no consequence to what he needed her for- her fidelity and her fertility. As coarse as it seemed, that was the crux of the matter, the foundation upon which their current relationship, that of political spouses, had been built. Maybe, it would change one day in the distant future, when they had mapped each other's quirks and habits enough, but not in the course of a single night, as revelatory of an experience that night had been.

"I do not judge, Elia. Nor do I seek to condemn. Whatever life you led before this is not my concern unless you choose for it to be so. I seek to know more about you, not only because you are my wife but also because I hope to find in you a friend."

Elia looked at him, plumbed through the depths of his strange violet eyes. They were clear, honest. How well could dragons lie, she wondered.

"And, I you. I will to tell you everything you wish to know, one day."

"I understand."

"I just need time to learn. About King's Landing, about the people, about your family, about my responsibilities. And, about you, if you will let me."

At this, Rhaegar broke her gaze, glancing around the room before he looked back to her. Even then, Elia could see a slight hesitancy in his gaze as he answered, and it disappointed her, as expected as the reluctance was. This was not a man accustomed to divulging himself, the broken and tattered bits of who he was. Neither was she, for that matter, unless it was to someone whom she trusted and loved. She suspected that Rhaegar, regardless of how much he cared for an individual, would ever be able to do the same. Nevertheless, the naive part of her had continued to nurse a fledgling hope.

"I will try, Elia. I cannot promise immediate clarity; I am not that kind of man. There are many things that need to be done, that I must do, that I cannot speak of yet. I will tell you, in time. I do not know when or how, but I will.

"But, I do promise you this: I will never lie to you. I may refuse to answer, I may not tell you everything, but I will never try to befuddle you with falsehoods."

Elia felt her heart drop slightly at his words. He had said something along the same vein the night he had snuck into her bedchamber, and hearing it for the second time made it seem more forced, less concrete, as if he was trying to convince himself as much as was her. It reminded her that in Westeros and especially in King's Landing, vows were never everlasting, regardless of the honesty with which they were forged. But, she did not let him see her discomfort. They had time to learn, to accommodate, and for now, she would believe his empty promise, if only to keep peace. She let her hand rest next to his own, in the space between them, their small fingers touching imperceptibly.

"Thank you, Rhaegar."

They smiled at each other, revelling in the quiet peace of the bedroom, of the quiet morning, ruminating over the information they had shared with one another. The sun had still not risen, but the room had lost some of its darkness.

Rhaegar broke the stillness by inching his hand forward, slowly tracing Elia's. A curious tingling spread along the path he took. She did not understand the motivation behind the hand that soon held her cheek or the lips that bent to suck at her neck, whether the actions were borne of Rhaegar's own desire or as a means to legitimize the tentative beginnings of their relationship. Regardless, Elia felt herself respond in kind to his passion, moaning and panting and crying out in tandem with the man who touched her and whom she touched in return. This act did not require thought- only sensation.

"Elia…"

There was a question in his whisper. Last night, her decision had been laced with alcohol and duty and fear and loss and recklessness. Now, she would be of clear mind, with conscious knowledge of the relationship between her and Rhaegar. Intoxication and impulsive behavior could not longer be her shields. It was time to make a choice, as narrow as her options may be.

 _Unbowed, unbent, unbroken_. _Unbowed, unbent, unbroken_. _Unbowed, unbent, unbroken_. _Unb-_

As Elia had in her room the night he had crept in, she placed her lips to his own, until the body of the prince formed a contiguous loop with hers. Her fingers laced into his hair, massaged his scalp as he moaned into her mouth. He broke apart from her to look into her eyes, and there was such fierceness there, such feral desire, that it sent a shiver of fear along Elia's spine, but she had no time to dwell on that because, soon, he was there, and she was there, and they were moving together and apart and-

"Oh!"

It was not perfect, it was not in unison. But, later, as she lay in Rhaegar's arms, heavy and laden with sweat as they were, Elia supposed that it was nice, this. Not just the fucking but everything else that had come before- the half-honest candor, the compromise, the gentle banter. She could get accustomed to this. She could come to love this. She could come to love _him_ , broken and dishonest as he may be. Yes, there were holes in their relationship, but none that could not be fixed in time. He had promised to do his part. She would have to learn to do hers.

Were these half-hearted attempts at assuaging her mind? Fuelled by a reluctance to shatter those childhood dreams of a perfect wedding and night and morning after with doubts and uncertainty? Perhaps. But, for now, lying in her husband's arms was enough. Feeling his heartbeat in tandem with her own was enough. Believing his repeated promises was enough. This- whatever they had begun to forge between them- was enough.

* * *

The duties of a crown princess to the Iron Throne were not outlined in a handbook. Not even in a list. In fact, if Elia had bothered to ask anyone what exactly her role was, she would receive the same answer: "Why, nothing, Princess." Yet, though there were no duties inscribed in stone for her to follow, Elia learned within the first three months of her marriage that there were _expectations_ that came with her title. Unspoken expectations but ones that she was expected to complete regardless.

Some, Elia had acquainted herself with before arriving at King's Landing. Giving birth to a healthy heir and, hopefully, a spare. Pleasing her husband, as a wife and as a consort. Obeying the King, deranged and awful as he was. Showing abject loyalty to House Targaryen, for she was a dragon's bride now.

But, there were other _expectations_ that Elia soon found herself bombarded with, some pleasant and others decidedly less so.

Arranging small concerts for the orphans of Flea Bottom, gossiping with her ladies-in-waiting, reminiscing about Dorne with Ashara, visiting Queen Rhaella to hear her gentle wit and amusing stories about Rhaegar's childhood, receiving letters from Oberyn about his paramours (really, only Ellaria) and from Father about his garden (and how much he missed her), talking and laughing and making love with her husband-all of these expectations brought Elia joy.

But, silently listening to King Aerys ignore the problems of his people and disparage his queen, his son, his subjects, and her from atop his mangled throne, responding to letters from Dorne with false cheer about the noxious atmosphere of her new home, watching the indigent citizens in Flea Bottom starve, whore, and fight their way to early deaths as the court lords and ladies grew fat on indulgence, ignoring the clench of guilt in her heart every time she saw a white cloak and blue eyes, seeing her good-mother's attempts at hiding her torn lips and scarred body from her son and the world-these expectations weighed heavily on Elia, on her mind and spirit.

But, these worries left her mind as she walked briskly to the outdoor courtyard of the Red Keep. She clenched the voluminous skirts of her gown in each hand, hoisting them a inch or two (or four) higher than was strictly proper in her haste. Elia had locked her Dornish wardrobe away shortly after the wedding. The loose-fitting styles of her homeland were a touch too enviable for the corset-bound court ladies and too tempting for the ill-restrained men. She was the wife of Prince Rhaegar and a princess in her own right. And, in a court where one's reputation was cemented by the amount of clothing one wore-well, that was a game Elia had to play, even if she resented having to. And, there was the matter of the weather. The north was simply too cold, even if the long winter was steadily coming to a close as the maesters reported.

Elia was reminded of her body's aversion to the temperature as soon as she stepped through the entrance and the chilly air enveloped her body. She stood at the top of the steps, shivering despite the protection that the long sleeves of her gown and that cloaking warmth her now-disheveled hair provided.

"Princess, I must insist that you return inside. It is simply to cold, and you are still recove-"

Elia placed a hand on the armored arm of Ser Gerold Hightower to silence him. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard stood slightly behind her, and although Elia did not turn to see his face, she could hear his concern. He was a fierce man but a kind and loyal one, too. He was most often assigned to guard the King, and, at those times, Ser Gerold was stern and somber. But, in the few instances he had been at Elia's side, she had been able to elicit a smile or two and once-her crowning glory-a chuckle, when she had shared the history of her unfortunate relationship with his grand-nephew, Baelor.

But, that humor disappeared now, as he stood, worried and anxious, at the steps of the Red Keep. Elia turned to him briefly, smiling broadly and as charmingly as she knew how.

"Ser Gerold, you treat me like I'm a little girl, not a woman fully grown. Would you deny me the pleasure of seeing my husband return simply because of a chill from a week ago?"

Ser Gerold huffed as Elia turned away from him, saying, "Denying you, letting you get sick-either way, I'll be getting an earful from Rhaegar. There's no damn way around the bloody business."

"Then, hush, good Ser. Let me smile and look pretty, and I promise that if I get sick, I'll put the blame entirely on Ser Barristan for letting me leave the solar in the first place."

Ser Gerold snorted once more, and Elia knew that he would not argue with her again, at least not while the Prince's retinue arrived, galloping into the front of the Keep. The banner of House Targaryen flew proudly behind the leader of the group of riders, headed by a man whose long, silver hair streamed like a flag itself as he slowed into a canter and then a stop in the courtyard below. The smallfolk who had gathered to see Rhaegar's return cheered loudly as he dismounted, gracefully, princely.

Elia almost cheered alongside them-it had been a fortnight since he had set out for peace talks with House Greyjoy on the Iron Islands-but she settled for tightly gripping Ser Gerold's arm and smiling until she felt her face would split.

Rhaegar was taking off his helm, handing the reins of his horse to the stable boy, waving and greeting the people, clapping the two Kingsguard members and three knights who had accompanied him on their backs, and then-and then he was at the steps of the Keep, looking up at her.

Even from the distance that separated Rhaegar from her, Elia could tell that he was smiling, that his blue-violet eyes were shining just as brightly as her own. As he transcended the steps, she felt her breath become shallow, but she could not pinpoint why. Vague reasons flew threw her head, but none seemed to stick except the final one, the one that was equal parts chagrinning and ironic, the one that she knew to be true.

She had missed him.

In the past three months, Rhaegar had integrated himself into her daily routine, alongside her visits and talks and meals. And, although he disappeared periodically for day-long meetings with the Small Council or with various envoys from the North or Westerlands or some other place, he had always been in the castle, had always returned to slump into Elia's bed in the dead of night and wake up, still half-clothed, with her in his arms.

But, with the recent aggression that House Greyjoy had shown along the coastline of Ironman's Bay, Rhaegar had been dispatched by the King-really, Tywin Lannister-to negotiate an end to the conflict between the afflicted Houses. The talks had taken longer than usual; in his short missives back to King's Landing, Rhaegar had written little, outside of "everything is going well," or "another setback today."

Elia knew he did not want to risk sending valuable information by letter; offending any of the participating parties meant risking rebellion and festering unrest, but as the days of Rhaegar's absence had stretched longer and longer, she found herself getting impatient for him to return to her side, partly because she did not understand what was postponing his return and also because everything was so much better with his presence in the city. Aerys was less volatile, less prone to shouting at her or the Queen or the various courtiers in the halls. Rhaella was less on edge, for Aerys turned his fury on her much less in his son's presence. Viserys behaved better, especially toward Elia herself. The Kingsguard were happier with the Prince's welcome addition to their training sessions. Even the smallfolk seemed less miserable because their Prince was among them.

And, as Rhaegar approached, yard by yard, Elia admitted to herself that she, too, felt much better when he was by her side, when he made the nightly visit to her chambers simply to discuss the day's events, when he took her on long, meandering walks along the castle courtyard, when he simply played his harp for her in the solar, or when he made her feel safe simply with his presence.

Was it love? No, Elia, could not call it that. The feeling in her heart lacked the depth, the ardour of love. It had all the happiness of a warm friendship, all the geniality of an important relationship, one that she valued for its own merits as well as the innate protection it provided. She yearned for his presence for the same reason she yearned for Oberyn's: it was comfortable and familiar.

Yet, when Rhaegar finally stood in front of her, she found herself at loss for what to say, a loss of words that would never have afflicted her had Oberyn been in his place. What was she _supposed_ to say? "Welcome home" seemed so bland, like something a servant would say to his master. "I am glad to see you back home, Rhaegar" was too personal for the public, too long to be eloquent, and too close to revealing feelings she was not yet ready to share.

In the end, Rhaegar made the first move. With a small smile on his lips, he bowed, those deep eyes never leaving Elia's. _He's amused_ , Elia realized, a touch indignant. _He thinks it's funny, how dumbstruck I am_.

"It is good to see you, Princess. A fortnight is a long time for a husband to be away from his wife's...company," he said softly but in that deep timbre all women, Elia included, melt when hearing.

Glancing back at Ser Gerold, Elia saw that he looked distinctly uncomfortable. The poor man was staring fixedly in front of him, but his face was a resolute pink. Elia stifled a laugh as she responded, "I would believe you, my Prince, if it were not for the fact that you have been without a wife much longer than you have had one. You cannot possibly be craving for her presence, not so soon into the marriage."

At this, Rhaegar grabs her hand and places a soft kiss on her knuckles.

"Oh, you see, but I do crave it. She has me practically in chains."

Laughing aloud now, Elia walks back into the walls of the Red Keep, Rhaegar by her side. As the servants swarm around them, he begins regaling her with various tales of his sojourn at the Bay. He talks nothing of political matters but, rather, about the sights he saw and people he met.

Elia is only half-listening. It is not that she is uninterested, but that she has now become aware of something. That, for some reason, seeing Rhaegar again, dismounting at the foot of the Red Keep, bounding to meet her at the steps, looking at her with those beautiful eyes, speaking to her in that low, low voice, saying that he had missed her company-all these things had, in fact, made her feel uncomfortable. They had made her breath halt, had made her heart race, had made her fingers and toes tingle with lightness.

And, as she looked at him out of the corner of her eyes as he rambled about "the indescribable beauty that is the sea," Elia realized that had been smiling since she saw him enter the courtyard. And, she could not stop.

* * *

 **Hi, all! It's been a long time, I know. Much too long, and I completely take the blame. Life, in general, has been rough for the past several months, but I made a commitment when I began this story, and, by not updating, I broke that commitment, so I apologize. I also apologize for the incredibly long wait, and thank you to those who expressed your interest in this story. It means a lot, and you most likely have no idea how much I mean by that statement. Just a headup, updates will be sporadic. I'm going to try to stick to a weekly, weekend update schedule, but we might have to sacrifice that weekly-update for a biweekly because I'm aiming for much longer chapters from here on out. Anyway, shout out to my friend, IzzyBells, for inspiring me to get up off my butt and continue this story, roadblocks in life and writing be damned. She has an amazing Sirius Black fic that she's been working on, and I am a huge fan, so I definitely recommend that to any HP fans out there. What am I talking about, we're pretty much a small country with the size of the HP fandom.**

 **So, we are progressing with the story! The next two-three chapters will cover the first year of Rhaegar and Elia's marriage. There's some key events that we'll see next chapter, including the return of Arthur to complicate things. Thank you all so much for reading, and please review, favorite, follow, etc. as you see fit. Until next time (hopefully Sunday afternoon/Monday morning)!**


	11. A Confrontation Long Awaited

**No copyright infringement intended. All recognizable characters, places, events, etc. belong to George R. R. Martin.**

* * *

The novelty of marriage wore off quickly, they said. The seemingly interminable golden days of the honeymoon months would inevitably wane into the practiced patterns of decades of matrimony, they said. Cherish the nights when you can call your husband a devoted lover still, for it would not be long before he became an occasional visitor, they said. Enjoy the time when every glance he sends your way sets flame to the coals in your heart, when every word spoken between you and him is a treasured gem, when his love and his attention and his company is all the sustenance you need, they said.

"They" being the women of the King's Landing, who delivered their portents in knowing looks from palace handmaidens and tittering slights from the court ladies. Some meant what they said-well-wishers and admirers and warm acquaintances whom Elia had made among the noblewomen and servants in the three months she had been at King's Landing. Others, the ilk of Cersei and women like her, intended for their words to hold nothing more than venom and ill fortune.

And, the thought did cross her mind, every now and then. That whatever joy Elia had found in Rhaegar's company these past few months might not be fated to last past the inception of their marriage.

But, now, as she splayed languidly across her bed, soaking in the beautiful morning rays that filtered through the open window and smiling softly at the poem Rhaegar had left for her on the mattress, Elia was could not help but feel so content, so _happy_. She had woken to face an empty bed, but rolling to the side Rhaegar had occupied the night before immediately evoked memories of his arms around her waist, of his face nestled into her hair, of the soft and deep timbre of his voice, of his musky scent. Elia had giggled softly to herself, then, for the foolish way in which her heart pattered, as if she was a little girl who still dreamed of fairy princes and once-upon-a-times.

And, in a way, it was these moments when her time in King's Landing felt like a sort of fairytale, and they were in no small part due to Rhaegar, his patience, his thoughtfulness, his innate charm. They had spent the first three days after their wedding solely with each other for company. Thoughts of royal duties and the court had no place in their lives during those hours; the king's command that his son and his good-daughter be left alone to procreate, while discomfiting in its intent, had relieved them of any obligations or prying eyes. Instead, Elia and Rhaegar had migrated between her chamber and his, alternating between student and teacher in their quest to know the other, the awkwardness of that initial morning dissipating quickly.

This pattern of talking and sharing had only continued since then. It had become a habit of theirs, to visit one another's chambers after dinner. Occasionally, the visit would extend to the next day, but, sometimes, it merely meant a hour or two of conversation as they tried to map the other out more and more, bit by bit. As Elia laid in bed, she fondly recalled one such conversation they had shared, the night of Rhaegar's return to King's Landing from the meeting with House Greyjoy a week prior.

* * *

"Quellon Greyjoy had nothing to do with it, as it turned out. To be honest, it was highly unlikely that he ordered it in the first place. He knows how the Ironborn are seen on the mainland. He's been trying to get on everyone's good graces for as long as he's been a lord," Rhaegar said as he reclined on the divan.

They were in Elia's chambers tonight. She lay in the plush carpet beside him, her loose shift covered by a large, warm blanket. She was feeling queasy, and her body ached, but she kept her attention on Rhaegar.

"Then who was it?"

"Euron. His second son. Apparently, a ship belonging to the Ironborn disappeared mysteriously in Ironman's Bay. The Greyjoys claimed one of the mainland Houses did it, but all of them denied it, and Quellon accepted their answer. His sons were all infuriated and, from what I gather, so were quite a few of the Ironborn. So, Euron got together a crew and began attacking ships and towns. He damaged a few of the Mallisters' and Baneforts' vessels and took prisoners from a town near Flint's Finger."

"Was Euron in attendance at the meeting?"

"Yes, although it didn't help matters. He raged at the lords, and when Quellon yelled at him to shut up, he sulked in the corner."

"But, was he correct? Were the mainland Houses responsible?"

"In a way. Eventually, one of the Banefort men came forward and admitted that his brother had been involved in some piracy act with men from all around the Bay area and some from outside Westeros. They had been commandeering trading ships from Braavos for years and decided to try their luck with an Ironborn one. They killed the Greyjoy men on board, lost a large number of their own, steered it into a nearby cove, and abandoned it. Apparently, the ship had been too damaged for it to be useful to them. Besides, it didn't have any cargo on it in the first place."

"Did any of the lords know about this?"

"Apparently, the lords of House Flint and House Banefort learned after Euron's attacks began that some of their men were involved. Jason Mallister didn't, of course. He would have told the Greyjoys and punished his men appropriately if he had known."

"His House marches for the Starks, yes?"

"Yes. I hear he is quite close to the heir to Winterfell. Good man, Jason. Honorable. Decent. And, an excellent jouster."

"And, quite handsome, if I remember correctly. Very high cheekbones."

Rhaegar reached over from the divan to capture Elia's hand in his own. She smiled at him as he said, "Careful, wife. You'll make your husband jealous if he learns you've been making eyes at another man."

Elia laughed but didn't respond to his quip. Instead, she asked, "What did you do?"

Rhaegar sighed, "We haven't decided. Quellon was none too happy when he learned the Baneforts and the Flints had known. He demanded retribution for the ship, but the Baneforts and the Flints refused to give it to him without payment for their own losses. Quellon did, however, agree to pay the Mallisters back in full. But, nothing I said changed any of the others' minds."

"What happens if you don't decide?"

"They all continue fighting, damaging each other's things. The Baneforts owe allegiance to the Lannisters and the Flints to the Starks. I want neither Tywin nor Rickard getting involved in something so minute."

"What will you do?"

"I do not know. None of the sides will listen to reason. I haven't had the chance to speak to Tywin on this matter yet, but I know he expects a clear answer. Chances are, he already has a solution in mind, but only let me mediate for practice. In the end, he'll get his way, especially since I can't see a solution."

Rhaegar rubbed his thumb in circles along Elia's hand. She had shifted to sit beside him on the divan, her back leaning against his stomach as her head rested on the divan's back. The nausea had subsided, but the inexplicable ache in her bones did not. It was not like the previous bouts of ill health that had plagued her in Dorne. There were no sharp pangs nor cramped innards. This was a different kind of pain.

Rhaegar's next words brought her back to the conversation at hand, "What do you think? What should I do about all of this?"

Elia squinted her eyes and laid down next to Rhaegar as she thought. His hand came to rest comfortably around her stomach. Elia should have felt lucky, she supposed, to have a husband who was willing to not only discuss politics with her but also ask for her opinion. Such had been the relationship between her own mother and father. Although the late Princess Aida had held the throne of Dorne nominally, she had deferred to her husband in private for advice, but this, Elia knew, was a rarity in the rest of Westeros. That Rhaegar was willing to share his duties with her was a sign of the respect he held for her. And, perhaps, it was also an indication that he intended this to be more than just a political marriage: it would be a political partnership between two intellectually matched individuals.

Elia felt Rhaegar's eyes on her, awaiting her response, but she took her time to consider the situation. But, if even the minor Houses refused to yield to the counsel of their Crown Prince, that did not bode well for the future. However, these were also proud men who could not simply be strong-armed into compliance; any affront to their egos would be remembered, nursed, and, one day, avenged. Aggression from any sides would be risking escalation. Elia thought of her mother, then. What would she have done if one of the merchants reported a similar squabble? Elia then remembered a week when she was a child; two merchants had come to the Dornish court, each complaining that the other had attacked his cargo. When they refused to listen to reason, Aida, rather than threatening them both with fines and inciting resentment towards the throne, had involved the master of the merchants' guild, a man whom she knew she could rely on to steer the two belligerent men to the right course. They had gone back to their homes none the too happier with the other but with no anger towards Aida herself, which was, in the end, the only thing that actually mattered to Aida when it came to such minor squabbles. Elia took inspiration from the memory; the fight between the the Houses really was rather insignificant, but it would take some deft maneuvering to prevent an unsettled ocean from growing into maelstrom.

"I think...I think you should involve the Great Houses. Tywin Lannister and Rickard Stark are both smart men. They know we are still in the middle of a winter, one that may end tomorrow or in another twenty years. Besides, aggravating the Ironborns won't help anyone. It'll take a good many ships, a good many men, and a message from the Drowned God himself before anyone can take the Iron Islands and subdue its people for more than a week. Call a meeting at King's Landing this time, with Quellon, Rickard, Tywin, and their vassals in attendance. Having it held here means they will be under your roof, so they will be less inclined to act out. Have the Starks and Lannisters speak to their men, have them encourage the Flints and Baneforts to compensate the Greyjoys for the ship they lost. But, make sure you are present throughout these negotiations; they must know that you are the master orchestrator of all of this, or, otherwise, they will see their overlords as the solution-makers, not you. As for Quellon, talk to him yourself, in private, if you must, to avoid embarrassing him in front of the other great Houses. You said he's eager to appeal to the mainland Houses. Explain to him the ramifications of a long-term grudge. And, if he still refuses, allow Tywin Lannister to step in. He should be intimidating enough, and you won't have your name hauled into the ensuing mess so soon if it's Tywin making the threats."

"And Euron? He needs to be punished."

Elia hummed in opposition and remarked lightly, "Are you sure? He was defending his family and his people. In Dorne, protecting your kin is not called revenge. It is called seeking justice. It is the expectation, not the exception. Leave Quellon to make judgements regarding his son. Doing it yourself undermines Quellon's authority, which is something he will not thank you for."

Rhaegar nodded thoughtfully for a few moments before smiling slowly as Elia's plan appealed to him. The candlelight shed light on his face, illuminating it in warmth. His eyes glowed; they were always the clearest way of seeing his inner thoughts. Her husband was beautiful, Elia realized. More beautiful than her, strangely enough, but the thought did not make her jealous nor insecure.

"It seems I've married a diplomat. Who knew those existed in Dorne?"

"All women are born diplomats, Rhaegar, whether they come from Pentos or from beyond The Wall."

Elia laughed softly as Rhaegar pulled her closer to his chest, softly murmuring, "I'll learn to remember that."

She allowed him to kiss her, softly and then more vigorously. But, when his lips began to inch their way to down her collarbone and his hand glided along the skin of her inner thigh, Elia placed a bracing hand on his shoulder. She was simply too tired tonight, and, thankfully, he understood, albeit with a rueful glance in his eyes. Instead, he stood up from the divan, leaned down to carry her in his arms, and deposited her on the bed. To Elia's surprise, he did not leave her chambers. Instead, he blew out the candles and joined her under the covers.

"You're staying? But, Rhaegar-"

"We do not have to be together every time I am in your bed, you know. Let us talk. You haven't told me about what it was like here without me. Boring?"

Elia smiled, whispering in a teasing manner, "Actually, I think I liked it better when you were gone. No flirting in front of the Kingsguard, no impromptu concerts on your harp, no state problems for me to help you unravel. It was heaven without you bothering me left and right."

"Oh, really?" he asked, his eyes squinting in mock anger as his fingers crept around her sides, and Elia squealed as she felt them tickle her stomach. Soon, their laughter filled the stone walls of the chamber and the darkness of the late night.

* * *

Now, a week after that conversation, Elia lounged in the warm embrace of her bed, rereading Rhaegar's poem and watching the play of dust suspended in the air, until a soft knock came to the door, followed soon after by three laughing faces.

In the few months since she had married Rhaegar, Elia had accrued a small group of loyal companions: Ashara, of course, but also Serra, Eyme, and Ilissa. The latter was a noblewoman of King's Landing. Ilissa's family, related to the Great Houses by extensive marriages, had ascended to importance centuries ago as affluent and successful merchants who pioneered trade with the Braavosi and slavemasters of Essos. Elia had met Ilissa when the girl visited the queen's chambers with her mother; Ilissa's mother and Queen Rhaella had been childhood acquaintances and playmates, but the common experience of being forgotten wives in King's Landing had brought them together in the past few years. Unlike Ilissa, however, Serra and Eyme were Elia's ladies-in-waiting. Serra was the daughter of a nobleman who claimed an honest, if somewhat faint, lineage to House Karstark. She had been raised in the capital, however, after her father had died in her youth, leaving her southron mother with the choice of becoming her brother-in-law's new wife or returning to King's Landing to her family. Serra's mother had chosen the latter, and, after ascending to become lady-in-waiting to Queen Rhaella, had secured a similar position for her daughter in the retinue of the new princess. Eyme had come to court with her parents as a part of the Casterly Rock spawn that had emigrated to King's Landing when Tywin had become Hand to the King. Despite her family's firm allegiance to the Lannisters, Elia appreciated Eyme's blunt humor; it reminded her, in a way, of Oberyn's style of fighting but equipped with the deft tongue of a hardened courtier rather than a spear or vial of poison.

The three women-Ashara, Serra, and Eyme-entered Elia's chamber carrying various articles of clothing and snatches of early morning gossip-which nobleman had disgraced another serving girl, the quick escape of yet another lady from Maester Pycelle's clutches, which knight of the Kingsguard may best the prince in battle.

"Ser Barristan, of course," Serra was saying as she entered the chamber. Despite her years at the capitol, the girl's pale skin and rough voice paid homage to her northern heritage.

"And Ser Arthur would unhorse everyone, prince and KIngsguard alike," Eyme returned.

As Eyme and Serra continued to debate, Ashara came to pose on the bed, smiling down at her friend as she lay amongst the covers, smiling and relaxed. There was such an expression of peace upon Elia's face, one that Ashara had not seen since the betrothal a year past. It was true that, in Dorne, Rhaegar had seemed quiet, serious, even melancholy. And, to an extent, this was the same demeanor he presented to the court. But, glimpses of his behavior around Elia, rumors circulating around the court of the more frequent smiles the prince sported in public, and Elia's own demeanor itself made her wonder if the dragon prince truly had discredited all of her expectations of him and had, somehow, managed to make Elia and himself happy. The thought gave Ashara happiness, but it made her wonder about the place her brother now held in Elia's heart, if he did anymore at all. And, it made Ashara wonder if it was meant to last, this unexpected turn of events that defied all previous expectation.

"Good morrow, Elia."

Elia laughed softly, clutched the blankets to her chest as she leaned forward to grasp Ashara's arm.

"Good morrow to you as well, old friend. It is good, isn't it?"

"My, my, what has Rhaegar done to you? Has he thoroughly ravished all common sense as well as virtue from your body?" Ashara quipped gently.

"Well, it is no wonder you left the festivities early, Your Grace, if this is what you were up to all night," Eyme remarked as she began laying Elia's articles of dress on the divan. The woman was of Elia's age, but her height and imposing figure made her appear much older.

Elia laughed at Serra's soft blushes; the girl was barely sixteen, and it was common knowledge amongst their party that she had a sweetheart amongst the court gentlemen, but she still shied away from any talk of Elia and Rhaegar's private affairs.

"I told you both, I was extremely tired. The melee lasted all day, and I simply could not stand having to dance another round with Mace Tyrell."

"But, you did not mind dancing with the prince, now did you?" Ashara laughed as she ducked at the pillow that came flying her way.

"Did you know, we happened to pass him on our way up to your chambers, and he looked quite happy," Eyme said, a smirk on her lips as she came round the bed with Elia's robe.

"Oh, shush, both of you."

But, Elia smiled to herself as she shrugged the robe around her body and began her morning toilette. There had been a melee held in King's Landing yesterday to celebrate the resolution of the Greyjoy squabble, followed by an extremely lengthy bout of feasting and dancing that had left Elia exhausted. But, then, of course, Rhaegar had come to her bedchamber, a bottle of Dornish wine in hand from some well-wisher, and the rest was, as they said, history.

* * *

Popularity was a fickle thing when it came to court life and something very few could claim to truly possess. It came from a combination of traits: a royal title, good looks, talent, a favorable disposition, money. Elia's husband and mother-in-law, by some miraculous stroke of cosmic luck, possessed all of these qualities and, consequently, where revered throughout King's Landing, even beyond the walls of the Red Keep. Elia herself yet had to receive any decisive reports of how her reputation fared amongst the lord and ladies who swarmed the fortress. She supposed the final verdict would within the year, depending on if she gave an heir to the kingdom, a daughter, or, worst of the lot, no babe at all. But, in any case, her repertoire was better than the King himself and, to a small extent, that of his younger son, Prince Viserys.

For all that he resembled Rhaegar and Rhaella, Viserys had none of their dispositions. The constant attention he received from the Kingsguard, his family, and the servants-the product of being the only surviving child after a litany of failed pregnancies-had made him spoiled, fanciful, and mischievous. He loved his father; he was too young to know of Aerys' cruelty, and the king was never unkind towards his second-and increasingly favorite-son. Of course, he loved Rhaella, as well, but, perhaps even more than her, he loved Rhaegar. In Viserys' eyes, his elder brother could do no wrong. Rhaegar was perfection embodied into a human being, according to his younger brother. While Elia shared, albeit to a lesser extent, Viserys' admiration for his brother, her relationship with the young prince was a tentative and slightly frosty one. Viserys had learned a dislike for those not of his own House from his father, and, although Elia was, in the eyes of the Seven, a Targaryen, she was not _truly_ family, and Viserys recognized this, for all his age. And, while Rhaegar never neglected his younger brother, adding "husband" and, hopefully soon, "father" to his list of duties no doubt reduced the amount of time he spent entertaining Viserys.

It was for these reasons that Elia suspected the young boy studiously ignored her as he paraded through the Queen's chambers. Today, he was Ser Duncan the Tall and, although dragons had disappeared by the knight's lifetime, in Viserys' fantasy, Ser Duncan rode Balerion the Dread himself.

"Play a little quieter, please, Viserys," admonished Rhaella gently as the boy galloped throughout the chamber, demanding vengeance for some imagined slight.

As of late, Queen Rhaella was looking healthier and more vibrant. Her eyes, so like those of Rhaegar, glowed as she reclined against her divan, her entire body relaxed and comfortable. Elia remembered seeing the Queen when she had first arrived at King's Landing and feeling her wince when they had embraced. It was true, any abuse the Queen suffered diminished to mostly verbal taunts thanks to Rhaegar's presence, but it was also clear that the King's behavior was growing increasingly bold and violent even when the Prince was in the Red Keep. Yet, since Rhaegar's successful resolution of the fight in Ironman's Bay, Aerys had been riding on a wave of relative sanity and contentment. Consequently, Rhaella had been happier, and the sight inspired similar feelings in Elia. The Queen had been kind and inviting to her since they met, just as Elia's mother had promised, and there were very few souls in the city who had ill to say about such a noble, tormented woman.

"What news have you, Elia?" she asked now. Occasionally, Elia would receive an invitation from Rhaella or she herself would visit the Queen. Oftentimes, it was to meet some new member of the court, Rhaella's own quiet way of ensuring that her good-daughter made friends in her new home. But, on other occasions, such as this one, it was simply to talk, about everything and anything.

"Not very much, I'm afraid. I visited the Sept this morning and stopped by an orphanage on the way back. I am considering asking Rhaegar if we may not do something for the children in Flea Bottom, something a bit more well-managed than a simple donation from the coffers because I do not believe the money reaches the children in its entirety," Elia responded, tugging at the stays of her dress. They had begun feeling more tight since noon, and it was becoming rather uncomfortable.

"Yes, I agree. Discuss it with Rhaegar, and let me know if you need my assistance. And, what news from Dorne? How are Doran and your father?"

"They are well. Doran was very involved in the decision-making before Mother's death, so it has been considerably easier. And, Father is content, I think. He enjoys his gardening."

"Yes, I saw the blooms he sent you last. The head gardener was quite happy to add it to his collection. A Dornish flower is so rare this far North, especially one so hardy."

"Yes, I believe he cross-bred it with some dragon's breath."

They continued chatting about this and that until it was well past the time for Elia to return to her chambers. It would be time for dinner soon, and she had a few letters to write, one of which was intended for Oberyn.

"Thank you for the conversation, Elia. I will see you at dinner, darling."

The last remark was addressed to Viserys, who was headed back to his own chambers for a bath. He sulked as he exited his mother's chambers, and, despite the fact they were accompanied by the loquacious Ser Oswell, the tension between Elia and her good-brother remained unbroken. Normally, she would have at least tried to make some small, insignificant comment or other. Anything regarding Targaryen lore or dragon history always managed to set his mouth loose, but, today, Elia was simply too tired, and it seemed that Viserys was just as disinclined as she was to start a conversation. In fact, as they approached his bedchamber, Viserys ran ahead into the room, where a servant no doubt awaited.

As she and Ser Oswell approached Viserys' door, Elia realized that the Kingsguard on duty was none other than Arthur himself. The dress she was wearing, which was already tight, suddenly seemed like an iron brace, cutting off her breath even further, as she fruitlessly sought a way to escape what was looking like an inevitable meeting.

"Arthur! Wasn't Jonothor supposed to relieve you?" Ser Oswell asked as he and Elia stopped in front of Arthur.

"Yes," Arthur replied, "But, I suspect he forgot. He was talking about sparring with the Prince earlier. He might still be out there."

Oswell snorted and replied, "Of course he is. Here, take a break, Arthur. Walk the Princess back to her chambers. I'll stand guard."

Arthur briefly glanced at Elia before quickly responding, "No, it's alright, really," but Oswell would have none of it and gently shoved his sworn brother from his post.

Arthur took his place by Elia's side, and they continued through the castle until, soon, they were alone in the darkened hallways of the Red Keep. Elia was acutely aware of his body moving next to hers, all encased in metal and armor on the outside but totally, completely _Arthur_ underneath.

This was a man, Elia ruminated with a bit of wry humor, who had once meant the world to her. Who had been her playmate and knight in shining armor. Who had sent her adolescent heart pattering for the first time. Who she had once swooned over, mesmerized by the seduction of first love and childhood romance. Who had kissed her, sweetly and swiftly and chastely, beneath the orange groves of the Water Gardens. Who had made her laugh by likening the pattern of freckles he had seen peppering her body to the arrow she had shot into his heart. Who had, so long ago, taught her what _desire_ was, the sensation of wanting and being wanted in return. Who had taught her what heartbreak tasted like-the salt of tears-and looked like-being kissed once, fiercely and sadly, underneath an orange tree before watching the man she loved walk away-and felt like-being crushed by loneliness, over and over again.

And, now? Now, this man who had been her everything was a stranger to her. The distance between them in the narrow corridor was strange to her. His silence and hers was strange to her. Being so on-guard around him was strange to her. It was all strange, all of it.

But, Elia knew why it was so. Because looking at Arthur also meant looking at who she once was, the Elia she was in Dorne. Ebullient, innocent, worry-free: a girl still. But, now, she was someone else, a Crown Princess. A Targaryen, if not by birth then by marriage and name. She was a wife, no longer independent. And, the reminder filled her with sadness and anger and guilt and an instinctive desire to resists the truth that she had changed, that everything was different now.

The silence, heavy before, soon grew compact and began to itch at Elia. Her dress felt tighter than ever, and her breath was coming in short pants. She had to speak, just simply had to, but what to say? What could she possibly have to ask him? "How often are you outside my chambers when Rhaegar is with me?" "Have you heard what I tell him, what I sound like when he is inside of me?" "Have you seen me try to escape whenever you are near me, how scared and ashamed I am to look into your eyes?" "Do you still care for me? Do you wonder if I care for you?"

And, perhaps, what she feared to ask most of all: "Do you hate me?"

But, as if by habit from their childhood days, Arthur came to her rescue, solving her dilemma by asking, "Are you alright, Princess?"

Elia laughed shortly, an out-of-breath, gasp-like sound, and said, "'Princess?' I haven't been 'Princess' to you since the first time we met."

She felt, rather than heard, his laugh as she bumped into him. Her head was ringing, and the world seemed to be tilting. But, Arthur did not seem to notice. When he spoke next, he sounded frustrated and angry, Elia's muddled mind recognized.

"Well, all that has changed now hasn't it?"

Elia stopped, flung a hand out to grab Arthur's arm and bring him about to face her.

"No, it has not. We are still the same people, Arthur."

It seemed, to Elia, that she was not speaking to Arthur, but a ghost of herself as well, the Elia of old. She struggled to focus on the face before her, on Arthur's face, as the features slipped and morphed between blue eyes and brown, masculine contours and feminine ones. Elia needed to convince him, her, _them_ , that nothing had changed, that she may ve Elia of King's Landing, of House Targaryen now, but she was still _herself_ , and he was still _Arthur_ , the person whom she knew she could run to for comfort when everything seemed too much, too much, the person who would hold her, _Arthur_ …

"How? How can you say that?" Arthur said, his hand removing the one she had placed on his arm. His voice, normally so calm, so reserved, was angry. "You are _married_. I am a knight in service to your _husband_ , your protector by obligation of my position. Whatever we had, as friends and something more, is _dead_ , and if it is not yet, we must kill it."

His hand, formerly clenched, softened around her palm until it was almost a caress, and his eyes searched her own as he said, "Once we loved one another. And, now, you love him. Maybe some part of me, a cruel, selfish part of me hoped...hoped that you wouldn't. That you would always be mine."

Elia's breath came in gasps, now. She felt a severe shock of pain course through her stomach, but she clung to Arthur's hand, almost to Arthur himself, as she struggled to stay upright against the waves of nausea and turmoil that ran through her, against the tears that gathered in her eyes as she looked at that familiar face, so uncharacteristically bent in sorrow. And, yet, Arthur continued, oblivious to Elia's slumped posture. He could see only her eyes and his pain.

"I thought I would lose you after Rhaegar married you. And, I thought that I finally had I saw you greet him in front of the Red Keep, so happy and so in love," he said, his voice becoming a hoarse on the last word, as if whispering it would deny the truth. "But, now, I know better. I lost you long ago, before Rhaegar even lay eyes on you. I lost you when I chose to walk away rather than fight, when I gave you up for a sword and a white cloak."

Elia tried to respond, to say something-anything-but, suddenly, Arthur's voice seemed to grow faint, as if she was hearing it from the end of a long, distant hallway. She felt her body tip backwards, but it never hit the floor. Instead, hands gripped her limbs and back, and another man's face joined Arthur's worried one above her, a pale face, crowned with pale hair.

Bile rose in Elia's throat. Her mind and body became stones, sinking faster and faster into a sea of oblivion, where the only sound she could seem to hear was a man's voice, calling her name.

"Elia…"

* * *

 **That was the longest and, I think, the most dramatic chapter yet! Also, so many characters making appearances, some canon and some OC. Any guesses on what's wrong with Elia? Who the pale man is? Any thoughts on Arthur's conversation with Elia? On Rhaellla, on Viserys? Any criticisms? I'd love to know!**

 **Thanks again to all who have kept with the story. Hearing your thoughts, especially after such a long hiatus, is a blessing and definitely a great incentive. Next weekend is crazy for me, so an update may not happen, so hopefully, this will tide you all over until then. But, here's a preview: something VERY BIG and something else also VERY BIG and more Arthur and Rhaegar/Elia fluff. And maybe something not so happy-count the sweet moments you see, because they're not going to last for too long.**

 **Thanks again for reading, and please comment/fave/follow as you see fit! Have a lovely week! Also, here's an early Happy Friday the 13th!**


	12. Notice

Hi all-

I apologize, this is a not another chapter, as you can tell. There have been a couple of reasons for why I haven't updated in so long. One, life has been very, very busy. However, I should have taken that into account before committing to this story and I did not, leading to long month of no additional chapters for all of you who have so graciously stood by me throughout this story. Second, I simply am frustrated with what I have written. I had a plan and plot written out for this work, but somewhere along the way, I realized I no longer liked it. I had delved deeper into certain characters and I felt I had diverged from others too much. I know I can write a story that is better than the one I have published now, and since I finally have a few months free, I will be devoting my time to do that. Therefore, I will be rewriting all of She Walked Among Suns and will resume posting once I am once more satisfied with what I have written. I apologize again to everyone who had such high hopes for a new chapter, and I hope you can understand my reasons for why I am doing this. If you have any questions, please let me know.

-lillylivered


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